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i 



YOUNG ORATOR; 



CONSISTING OF 



PROSE, POETRY, AND DIALOGUES 



Hetlamation i\x Scjotilis; 



SELECTED FROM THE BEST AUTHORS. 



BY REV. J. li. BLAKE, A. M, 

Author of ' First Book in Astronomy,' ' First Book in Natural Philosophy,' 
and the 'American Universal Geography.' 




BOSTON 

LILLY, WAIT, COLMAN AND HOLDEN. 
1833. 







^ 



:<<\ 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1833, by 

'LILLY, WAIT, COLMAN AND IIOLDEN, 
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



/^^M . 



STEREOTYPED BY LYMAN THURSTON & Co. 
BOSTON. 



PREFACE. 

The plan of the Young Orator did not originate with 
the compiler. In November 1832, I was requested by one 
of the most popular teachers in New England, to get up a 
book of this description. I remarked that books for decla- 
mation in schools were now very numerous, and declined 
the undertaking. The request was afterwards repeated, 
with the assurance founded on much experience, that these 
books, although very excellent of their kind, were calcu- 
lated for a more advanced grade of scholars — for persons 
of matured intellect and not for boys. 

This declaration came from so respectable a source, that 
I was induced to collect and examine the class of books 
alluded to. The examination resulted in the persuasion 
that another book might prove useful to the public ; and 
under this persuasion the present volume has been pre- 
pared. 

In communicating with other teachers, I found that 
they had experienced and lamented the same deficiency in 
this department of school literature. Many of them had 
been obliged to keep a library of books fi*om which selec- 
tions might be made for the use of their scholars. From 
this list of selections, with other materials in my own pos- 
session, the Young Orator has been made up ; and fi*om 
the degree of care which has attended the selection, I 
indulge the hope that the evil complained of, has been in 
some good measure removed. 

J. L. BLAKE. 



/ 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The American Indians 9 

The River 11 

Mount Auburn 12 

Beauty 13 

The Goodness of God in Creation. 14 

The Falls of Niagara 17 

The Power of Religion 17 

Death 19 

The Two Robbers 20 

Mechanism of 31an 22 

South Carolina Patriotism 24 

The Shipwreck 25 

Religion 26 

The Waterfall and the Eglantine 28 

American Patriotism 30 

Friendship 31 

The Intemperate Husband 33 

Youth 34 

Master and Slave 36 

The Warrior 39 

The Passion for Dress 41 

The Common Lot 42 

Changes in Human Life 43 

On Early Rising 45 

The Pleasures of Old Age 45 

Picture of Life 47 

The Cholera in New York. 49 

Power of Beauty 50 

The Life of a Name 51 

The Summer Morning 52 

Fear and Punishment 53 

The Path of Life 54 

Pride and Humility 55 

Address to Science 56 

The Colonists 57 

The Decline of Life 61 

On Choice of Company 62 

Youth and Age 65 

The Mother of Washington 66 

1* 



vi CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Drum 68 

Universality of Religion 69 

Signs of Rain 71 

The Price of a Victory 72 

Studies Recommended 74 

Reflections on Water 75 

A Contented Mind 77 

The Visible Firmament 78 

Pleasures of the Rustic 80 

The Polish Ladies 81 

Breakfast 82 

Irving in New York 83 

The Hermit's Tale 85 

The Folly of Pride 87 

Youth and Manhood 88 

The Planetary System 89 

Democritus and Heraclitus 91 

Ambition False and True 94 

Maternal Affection 95 

The Dying Blind Boy to his Mother 96 

The Female Character 98 

Night 99 

On Duelling 100 

La Fayette's Second Visit to America 101 

My Birthday 103 

Learning and Usefulness 104 

Sacred Lyric 106 

Immortality of the Soul 107 

The Balance of Happiness 108 

The Morning Mist 109 

Flattery Reproved ,110 

The Fugitive 112 

Imagination and Reason 114 

A Care for Hard Times 115 

The Orphan Boy 117 

The Sultan and Mr. Haswell 119 

Devout Trust 121 

Public Faith 121 

The Singing Bird 123 

Importance of Virtuous Principles 123 

The Angler's Song 125 

The Immortality of Man 126 

Paternal Affection : 128 

Vindication of Spain 129 

Pulaski's Banner 131 

Modern Republics ., 132 

The Trooper's Dirge 134 

The Battle of Lexington 135 

The Bay of Naples , 137 



CONTENTS. vii 

Page 

The Character of Woman 139 

Home 141 

Physical Education 142 

An Evening Sketch 144 

National Distinctions 144 

Prevalence of Poetry 146 

Benefits of Agriculture 147 

The Little Thief 149 

Characteristics of American History 150 

The Beggar Man 152 

Value of the Soul 153 

Ode to Spring 155 

The Importance of Little Things 156 

Instruction from Animals 158 

Man's Highest Interest 159 

The Castle-Builder 161 

Excuses for Profaneness 162 

To the Rainbow 164 

Dialogue on Dancing 164 

Invocation to May 168 

The Conversion of St. Paul 169 

Content 170 

The Present and the Future 171 

The Two Gardeners 173 

The House of Mourning 174 

An Address to the Deity 176 

True and False Philanthropy 178 

The Parted Spirit 182 

Moderation and Passion 183 

A Mother's Gift 185 

The Goodness of God 186 

The Repositories of the Dead 187 

Spring 189 

An Appeal to the Duellist 190 

What Makes Beauty 192 

The Way to be Happy 193 

Song of the Bees 194 

Duelling Considered 195 

The Winter Night 197 

Taste and Fashion 198 

Divine Providence 199 

The Wounded Eagle 201 

Ancient Nations 202 

Ambition 204 

Humility 205 

The Spirit of Beauty 206 

The World 207 

Instructions from Nature 208 

The New Moon.. 210 



viii CONTENTS. 

Page 

How to Tell Bad News 211 

The Value of a Cent 212 

Death and the Drunkard 214 

On the State of Sleep 216 

The Air 217 

The Beacon Light 218 

Evils of War 219 

The Deep 221 

Patriotic Triumph 222 

The Infant Orator 223 

Irish Courtesy 224 

What is That, Mother ? 227 

Uses of Water 228 

Address to Blossoms 229 

Origin of War 230 

The Unknown Isles 231 

The Union of the States 232 

The Ruins .....' 234 

Increase of Knowledge 235 

Ode to Tranquillity 237 

The Pleasures of Science 238 

A Happier Clime 239 

Charles II. and William Penn 240 

Belshazzar 243 

The Life of a Drunkard 244 

Nature Always True 246 

Social Happiness 247 

Human Love 248 

The Good Wife 249 

The Sleep Walker 251 

The Nalure of True Eloquence 251 



THE YOUNG ORATOR- 



THE AMERICAN INDIANS. 

What can be more melancholy than the history of 
the American Indians? By a law of their nature, 
they seemed destined to a slow but sure extinction. 
Every where, at the approach of the white man, they 
fade away. We hear the rustling of their footsteps, 
like that of the withered leaves of autumn, and they 
are gone forever. They pass mournfully by us, and 
they return no more. 

Two centuries ago the smoke of their wigwams, 
and the fires of their councils, rose in every valley 
from Hudson's Bay to the farthest Florida, from 
the ocean to the Mississippi and the Lakes. The 
shouts of victory and the war dance rung through the 
mountains and the glades. The thick arrows and the 
deadly tomahawk whistled through the forest ; and the 
hunter's trace, and the dark encampment, startled the 
wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in 
their glory. Braver men never lived; truer men, 
never drew the bow. 

They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and 
perseverance, beyond most of the human race. They 
shrunk from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. 



10 THE AMERICAN INDIANS. 

If they had the vices of savage life, they had the 
virtues also. They were true to their country, their 
friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, 
neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance 
was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were uncon- 
querable also. Their love, like their hate, stopped 
not on this side of the grave. 

But where are they.^ Where are the villages, and 
warriors, and youth? the sachems and the tribes? the 
hunters and their families? They have perished. 
They are consumed. The wasting pestilence has not 
done the mighty work. No, nor famine, nor war. 

There has been a mightier power, a moral canker, 
which has eaten into their heart-cores; a plague, 
which the touch of the white man communicated; a 
poison, which betrayed them into a lingering ruin. 
The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region, 
which they may now call their own. Already the last 
feeble remnants of the race are preparing for their 
journey beyond the Mississippi. 

I see them leave their miserable homes, the aged, 
the helpless, the women, and the warriors, ' few and 
faint, yet fearless still.' The ashes are cold on their 
native hearths. The smoke no longer curls round 
their lowly cabins. They move on with a slow, 
unsteady step. 

The white man is upon their heels, for terror or 
despatch, but they heed him not. They turn to take 
a last look of their deserted villages. They cast a last 
glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed 
no tears; they utter no cries; they heave no groans. 

There is something in their hearts which passes 
speech. There is something in their looks, not of 
vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which 



THE RIVER. H 

stifles both; which chokes all utterance, which has no 
aim or method. It is courage absorbed in despair. 
They linger but for a moment. Their look is onward. 
They know and feel that there is for them but one 
remove farther, not distant, or unseen. It is to the 
general burial-ground of their race. 



THE RIVER. 

River! River! little River! 

Bright you sparkle on your way. 
O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, 
Through the flowers and foliage glancing, 

Like a child at play. 

River! River! swelling River! 

On you rush o'er rough and smooth — 
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping. 
Over rocks, by rose-bank sweeping 

Like impetuous youth. 

River! River! brimming River! 

Broad and deep and still as Time, 
Seeming still — ^yet, still in motion, 
Tending onward to the ocean, 

Just like mortal prime. 

River! River! rapid River! 

Swifl;er now you slip away ; 
Swift and silent as an arrow, 
Through a channel dark and narrow, 

Like life's closing day. 



12 MOUNT AUBURN. 

River! River! headlong River ! 

Down you dash into the sea; 
Sea, that Hne hath never sounded — 
Sea that voyage hath never rounded, 

Like eternity. 



MOUNT AUBURN. 

So far as we ourselves are concerned, it matters 
not where our corruptible bodies are deposited after 
death. No sequestered spot — no perfumed air — no 
balmy breezes, can save our flesh from the worm of 
the grave. Whether placed in consecrated ground, 
or deposited by the public highway, we are alike sub- 
jected to the horrors of that ' narrow house, prepared 
for all the living.' Whether entombed beneath the 
lofty columns, or whether our grave be made within 
the watery waste, 't is all the same — the same decay 
and change awaits us. To us, it matters not: but to 
those near and dear friends who may survive us, it is 
difterent. To those we love, we look with different 
feelings. When we see father, mother, brother, 
sister, or friend, to whom we are bound by the tender 
cords of affection, consigned to their last, long home, 
in a neglected spot, left with ' no stone to tell where 
they lie,' — left, exposed to the rude tread of the stran- 
ger, to be forgotten — their graves, perhaps, to be 
made the place of the jest and the song, how poignant 
are our feelings — how repugnant to our natures are 
the thoughts which come rushing on the mind. At 
times like this, how do we wish that some lone spot, con-^ 
secrated to the memory of the departed, was at hand 



BEAUTY. 13 

in which we might deposit the last frail relics of those 
in whom we have centred all our affections — where 
they should not be forgotten; but where their memory 
might be blessed with the tear of the passer-by — 
where they could be consigned to the grave amid the 
fragrance of nature, and where roses might bloom 
over them, as fit emblems of their virtues and decay — 
where no rude footstep should pollute the ground thus 
made sacred by their remains, but where all would be 
led to contemplate with awe and respect, the home of 
the dead. 

Such a place is Mount Auburn! Consecrated to 
the memory of the dead, by the first and master spirits 
of the age, it is ' Holy Ground.' There is not, per- 
haps on earth, a place so well calculated for its pres- 
ent purpose as Mount Auburn. The celebrated and 
far-famed Pere La Chaise, in the vicinity of Paris, so 
far as nature is concerned, is as far inferior to it, as 
pigmy mountains to the towering Alps. Nature has 
made this romantic— art has made it beautiful — the 
Creator has made it lovely — Man has made it sacred! 
Here are to repose the remains of Talent, of Virtue 
and Love— Here will much that is fair, much that is 
beautiful, take up its abode, ' until the last trump shall 
sound, and the graves shall yield up their dead.' 



BEAUTY. 



1 SAW a dewdrop cool and clear, 

Dance on a myrtle spray ; 
Fair colors decked the lucid tear. 
Like those that gleam and disappear, 



14 GOODNESS OF GOD. 

When showers and sunbeams play. 
Sol cast athwart a glance severe, 
And scorched the pearl awaj. 

High, on a slender, polished stem, 

A fragrant lily grew — 
On its pure petals many a gem 
Glittered, a native diadem 

Of healthy morning dew: — 
A blast of lingering winter came, 

And snapped the stem in two. 

Fairer than morning's early tear, 

On lily's snowy bloom. 
Shines Beauty in its vernal year. 
Bright, sparkling, fascinating, clear, 

Gay, thoughtless of its doom — 
Death breathes a sudden poison near 

And sweeps it to the tomb ! 



THE GOODNESS OF GOD IN CREATION. 

For what purpose did the infinite Creator give 
existence to this majestic monument of his almighty 
power? For what purpose did he create the earth 
and the heavens, v/ith all their unnumbered hosts? 
Was it not, evidently, that he might communicate hap- 
piness; and does not this design appear conspicuous 
on the open face of nature ? What is the plain and 
unequivocal indication of all those marks of infinite 
wisdom, and skilful contrivance, in the general dispo- 
sitions, and in all the parts of surrounding nature? 



GOODNESS OF GOD. 15 

Is it not, that the Creator of all things is infinitely 
good? Is there not a display of infinite goodness, in 
the regular and harmonious disposition of the heav- 
enly orbs? Instead of this beautiful order, why was 
there not the most horrible confusion? Instead of 
this benignant harmony of the spheres, why was there 
not a perpetual jar, and the most disastrous concussion ? 

Is there not a display of infinite goodness in the gran- 
deur and beauty of the creation, — so favorably adapted 
to elevate, to inspire with admiration, and to fill with 
the purest pleasure, the devout and contemplative 
mind? Why was not the whole creation so formed as 
only to excite amazement, terror, and despair? Is 
there not a display of infinite goodness in the beautiful 
scenery of our globe, — so agreeably diversified with 
continents and seas, islands and lakes, mountains and 
plains, hills and valleys, adapted to various beneficial 
purposes, and abounding with productions, in endless 
variety, for the convenience, the support, and the hap- 
piness, of its diversified inhabitants? Why was not 
the whole earth like the burning sands of Libya, or 
the rugged and frozen mountains of Zembla? Why 
was it not one wide and dreary waste, producing only 
briers and thorns, and poisonous or bitter fruits ? 

Is there not a display of infinite goodness in the 
grateful vicissitude of the seasons, each bearing upon 
its bosom its peculiar delights; the spring arrayed in 
the most beautiful verdure, and decorated with flow- 
ers; the summer abounding with delightful prospects, 
and teeming with luxuriance; autumn loaded with 
golden harvests, and the richest variety of fruits; and 
even winter supplying in social enjoyments, and the 
nobler pleasures of study and contemplation, what it 
lacks in external charms ? Why was not the whole 



16 GOODNESS OF GOD. 

year one continued scene of dull uniformity, or so 
irregular in its changes as utterly to baffle all the cal- 
culations, and arrangements, and pursuits of life? 
Why was not every sight a spectacle of horror, every 
sound a shriek of distress, every sweet a most pun- 
gent bitter, every gale a blast of pestilence ? Is it not 
because the Creator and Preserver of the world is a 
being of infinite goodness? 

Is it not strange, that we do not constantly perceive 
the glory of God, which the heavens declare, and 
gratefully recognise his goodness, so richly spread 
abroad through all his works ? Happy, happy were it 
for us, did nature constantly appear to us as it really 
is, animated and enlivened by the presence of its glo- 
rious Author! When the sun rises or sets in the 
heavens, when spring adorns the earth, when summer 
shines in its glory, when autumn pours forth its fruits, 
or when winter returns in its awful forms,' happy were 
it for us, did we constantly view the great Creator 
and Preserver of all, continually manifesting himself 
in his various works! Happy did we meet his pres- 
ence in the smiling fields, feel his influence in the 
cheering beams, hear his voice even in the whispering 
breeze, and taste his goodness in every gift of nature 
and providence! Happy did we feel ourselves every 
where surrounded with the glory of that universal 
Spirit, who fills, pervades, and enlivens all; and did 
we live in the world, as in a great and august temple, 
where the presence of the Divinity who inhabits it, 
fills the mind with awe, and inspires the heart with 
devotion! 

Dr. S. Worcester. 



POWER OF RELIGION. 17 



THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, 

While I look upward to thee. It would seem 

As if God poured thee from his ' hollow hand,' 

And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; 

And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him 

Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake 

^ The sound of many waters;' and had bade 

Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 

And notch His cent'ries in the eternal rocks 

Deep calieth unto deep. And what are we 
That hear the question of that voice sublime? 
Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung 
From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side! 
Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
In his* short life, to thy unceasing roar! 
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him, 
Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far 
Above its loftiest mountains.^ — a light wave, 
That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. 

Brainard, 



THE POWER OF RELIGION. 

Few men suspect, perhaps no man comprehends, 
the support given by religion to every virtue. No 
man, perhaps, is aware how much our moral and 
social sentiments are fed from this fountain; how 
powerless conscience would become without the belief 



18 POWER OF RELIGION. 

of a God; how palsied would be human benevolence 
were not the sense of a higher benevolence to quicken 
and sustain it ; how suddenly the whole social fabric 
would quake, and, with fearful crash, would sink into 
hopeless ruin, were the ideas of a Supreme Being, of 
accountableness, and of a future life, to be utterly 
erased from every mind. Once let men thoroughly 
believe that they are the work and sport of chance ; 
that no superior intelligence concerns itself in human 
affairs; that all their improvements perish forever at 
death; that the weak hath no guardian, and the op- 
pressed no avenger; that an oath is unheard in heav- 
en; that secret crime hath no witness but the perpe- 
trator; that human existence has no purpose, and 
human virtue no unfailing friend ; that this brief life is 
every thing to us, and death is total, everlasting ex- 
tinction; once let men thoroughly abandon religion, 
and who can conceive or describe the extent of the 
desolation which would follow? We hope, perhaps, 
that human laws and sympathy would hold society 
together. As reasonably might we believe that were 
the sun quenched in the heavens, our torches could 
illuminate, and our fires quicken and fertilize the 
creation. What is there in human nature to awaken 
respect and tenderness for man, if the unprotected 
insect of the day is suffered to pass unheeded ? And 
what is he more, if atheism be true ? Erase all thoughts 
and fear of God from a community, and selfishness and 
sensuality would absorb the whole man. Appetite — 
knowing no restraint, and poverty and suffering hav- 
ing no solace or hope — would trample in scorn on the 
restraint of human laws. Virtue, duty and principle, 
would be mocked and spurned as unmeaning sounds. 
A sordid self-interest would supplant every other 



DEATH. 19 

feeling; and man would become, in fact, what the 
theory of atheism declares him to be — a companion 
for brutes. 



DEATH. 



Ah ! that funeral toll ! loud tongue of time ! 
What woes are centred in that frightful sound ! 
It calls! it calls me with a voice sublime, 
To the lone chambers of the burial ground. 
My life's first footsteps are midst yawning graves; 
A pale, teeth-chattering spectre passes nigh, 
A scythe of lightning that pale spectre waves. 
Mows down man's days like grass, and hurries by. 

Nought his untired rapacity can cloy: 

Monarchs and slaves are all the earth-worm's food; 

And the wild raging elements destroy 

Even the recording tomb. Vicissitude 

Devours the pride of glory ; as the sea 

Insatiate drinks the waters, even so days 

And years are lost in deep eternity. 

Cities and empires Vandal Death decays. 

We tremble on the borders of the abyss, 
And giddy, totter headlong from on high; 
For death with life our common portion is, 
And man is only born that he may die. 
Death knows no sympathy; he tramples on 
All tenderness — extinguishes the stars — 
Tears from the firmament the glowing sun, 
And blots out worlds in his gigantic wars. 



20 THE TWO ROBBERS. 

But mortal man forgets mortality! 
His dreams crowd ages into life's short day; — 
While, like a midnight robber stealing by, 
Death plunders time by hour and hour away 
When least we fear, then is the traitor nigh: 
Where most secure we seem, he loves to come: 
Less swift than he, the bolts of thunder fly, 
Less sure than he, the lightning strikes the dome. 

Bowring. 



THE TWO ROBBERS. 

We often condemn in others what we practice ourselves. 

Alexander the Great in his tent. Ji man with a fierce 
countenance, chained and fettered, brought before him. 

Alexander. What, art thou the Thracian robber, 
of whose exploits I have heard so much? 

Robber. I am a Thracian, and a soldier. 

Alexander. A soldier! — a thief, a plunderer, an 
assassin! the pest of the country! I could honor thy 
courage, but I must detest and punish thy crimes. 

Robber. What have I done, of which you can com- 
plain } 

Alexander. Hast thou not set at defiance my author- 
ity ; violated the public peace, and passed thy life in in- 
juring the persons and properties of thy fellow subjects.'* 

Robber. Alexander! I am your captive — I must 
hear what you please to say, and endure what you 
please to inflict. But my soul is unconquered; and 
if I reply at all to your reproaches, I will reply like a 
free man. 

Alexander. Speak freely. Far be it from me to take 



THE TWO ROBBERS. 21 

the advantage of my power, to silence those with whom 
I deign to converse. 

Robber. I must then answer your question by 
another. How have you passed your life? 

Mexander. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will 
tell you. Among the brave, I have been the bravest: 
among sovereigns, the noblest: among conquerors, 
the mightiest. 

Robber. And does not Fame speak of me, too? 
Was there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant 
band? Was there ever — but I scorn to boast. You 
yourself know that I have not been easily subdued. 

Alexander. Still, what are you but a robber — a 
base, dishonest robber? 

Robber. And what is a conqueror ? Have not you, 
too, gone about the earth like an evil genius, blasting 
the fair fruits of peace and industry; plundering, rav- 
aging, killing, without law, without justice, merely to 
gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? All that I 
have done to a single district with a hundred followers, 
you have done to whole nations with a hundred thou- 
sand. If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined 
kings and princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, 
you have desolated the most flourishing kingdoms and 
cities of the earth. What then is the difference, but 
that as you were born a king, and I a private man, you 
have been able to become a mightier robber than I? 

Alexander. But if I have taken like a king, I have 
given like a king. If I have subverted empires, I 
have founded greater. I have cherished arts, com- 
merce, and philosophy. 

Robber. I, too, have freely given to the poor 
what I took from the rich. I have established order 
and discipline among the most ferocious of mankind, 



22 MECHANISM OF MAN. 

and have stretched out my protecting arm over the 
oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosophy 
you talk of, but I believe neither you nor I shall ever 
atone to the world for half the mischief we have done it. 
Alexander. Leave me. Take off his chains, and 
use him well. Are we then so much alike .^ Alex- 
ander like a robber.'' Let me reflect. 

Dr, Aikin, 



MECHANISM OF MAN. 

^ I am fearfully and wonderfully made,^ 

Fond atheist! could a giddy dance 

Of atoms blindly hurled 
Produce so regular, so fair, 

So harmonized a world ? 

Why do not Libya's driving sands, 

The sport of every storm, 
A palace here, the child of chance, 

Or there a temple form. 

Presumptuous wretch! thyself survey; 

That lesser fabric scan; 
Tell me from whence the immortal dust, 

The God, the reptile man.^ 

Where wast thou when the embryo earth 
From chaos burst its way; — 

When stars exulting, sang the morn, 
And hailed the new-born day ? 



MECHANISM OF MAN. 23 

What fingers brace the tender nerves, 

The twisting fibres spin? 
Who clothes in flesh the hardening bone, 
And weaves the silken skin? 

How came the brain and beating heart, 

Life's more immediate throne, 
(Where fatal every touch,) to dwell 

Immailed in solid bone ? 

Who taught the wandering tides of blood 

To leave the vital urn. 
Visit each limb in purple streams. 

And faithfully return? 

How know the nerves to hear the will. 

The heavy limbs to wield — 
The tongue ten thousand tastes to tell. 

Ten thousand accents yield? 

How know the lungs to heave and pant — 

Or how the fringed lid 
To guard the fearful eye, or brush 

The sullied ball unhid? 

How knows the eye to catch the view, 

And tell the senses round — 
The delicate and winding ear 

To image every sound? 

Who, with a love too big for words 

The mother's bosom warms. 
Along life's rugged paths to bear 

Her offspring in her arms ? 



24 SOUTH CAROLINA PATRIOTISM. 

^ A God! a God!' creation shouts; 

' A God!* each insect cries; 
He moulded in his palm the earth. 

And hung it in the skies!' 



SOUTH CAROLINA PATRIOTISM. 

The following extract is from a letter written by Thomas S. Grimke, of 
Charleston, South Carolina. The letter was addressed to the inhabitants 
of that state, on the subject of an ordinance just passed in the convention 
thereof, designed to absolve their allegiance to the government of the 
United States. The letter was dated December 1st, 1832. 

I ask no pardon, I make no apology for the boldness 
and frankness with which I speak. I am still a free- 
man: and the convention may be assured, that so long 
as the liberty of speech and the liberty of the press 
remains, there are thousands who will speak and 
write as fearlessly as I do. And have they yet to 
learn, that the confiscation of property, the imprison- 
ment of the body, nay^ the loss of life itself, have no 
terrors for the brave and the free ? Have they yet to 
learn that the dungeon and the scaffold are the pa- 
geantry of tyrants, in the eyes of the Martyr to civil 
or religious liberty ? Have they yet to learn, that they 
may torture the body, but cannot subdue the soul: that 
they may immolate the freeman, a victim to their power, 
but cannot make him the slave of their will.^ Have 
they, indeed, yet to learn, after all the solemn lessons 
that Liberty has taught, amid the fires of persecution 
and the blood of her martyred children — that the free- 
man, like the Christian, counts property, liberty, and 
life, as dust and ashes, in comparison with his princi- 
ples and independence ? 



THE SHIPWRECK. 25 

I have studied in vain the history of free com- 
munities, and especially of this country; and I have 
loved and venerated in vain the noble qualities of 
American and of Carolinian character, if there be 
not thousands in this State, who are ready in the 
same cause, to yield up property to your acts of confis- 
cation, liberty to the loathsomeness of your dungeons, 
and life itself to the tragedy of your scaffolds. The 
punishments you may inflict, may be ignominious in 
your eyes; but posterity will honor them as the suffer- 
ings of the virtuous free. You may consign your 
victim to the death of the malefactor; but your own 
children shall acknowledge his title even to their 
gratitude and admiration. You may follow him with 
scorn and execrations to the gallows: — May he be 
strengthened from above to make the last act of his 
life, a prayer for his destroyers! You may brand the 
grave of your victim, as the grave of the Traitor ; but 
the very next age will hallow it as the bed of glory. 



THE SHIPWRECK. 

' Stay, angry ocean! for thy breast 

The beautiful now bears; 
Rock thy wild — tossing waves to rest, 

And calm their anxious cares.' 
Hark! to the sullen answering roar — 

' Beneath my world of waves, 
Earth's loveliest have sought before, 

The quiet of my caves!' 

^ But manhood treads the reeling deck, 
With steps of pride and power ; 
3 



26 RELIGION. 

His stern, deep voice man's rage could check, 

In passion's stormiest hour!' 
'Speak ye of power! — the conqueror's boast 

Of fleets that awe the world, 
Lies shivered on my rockiest coast, 

Or in my depths is hurled I ' 

' If wealth could bribe thee, stormy seal' — 

' My cells are paved with gold, 
With many, an empire's treasury, 

In yellow heaps, untold; 
And pearls and gems that shame the round 

Upon a monarch's brow. 
Are cumbering the quiet ground 

Where monsters rest them now. 

* Nor youth, nor beauty, wealth nor power, 

Can calm me or delay; 
Resistless as the passing hour. 

Is my impetuous way. 
There is no flattery in my ruth, 

Capriciously I spare; 
Death and the ocean speak the truth — 

To hear it, listen there!' 



RELIGION. 



Religion is the daughter of heaven, parent of our 
virtues, and source of all true felicity ; she alone gives 
peace and contentment, divests the heart of anxious 
cares, bursts on the mind a flood of joy, and sheds 
unmingled and perpetual sunshine in the pious breast 



RELIGION. 27 

By her the spirits of darkness are banished from the 
earth, and angelic ministers of grace thicken unseen 
the regions of mortality. 

She promotes love and good will among men, lifts 
up the head that hangs down, heals the wounded 
spirit, dissipates the gloom of sorrow, sweetens the 
cup of affliction, blunts the sting of death, and where- 
ever seen, felt, and enjoyed, breathes around her an 
everlasting spring. 

Would you wish, amidst the great variety of reli- 
gious systems in vogue, to make a right distinction, 
and prefer the best? Recollect the character of 
Christ; keep a steady eye on that universal and per- 
manent good will to men, in which He lived, by which 
He suffered, and for which He died. 

What now would you expect from a mind so purely 
and habitually benign ? Is it possible to suppose, that 
a heart thus warm and wide could harbor a narrow 
wish, or utter a partial sentiment? Most luckily, in 
this point, full satisfaction is in every man's power. 

Go, search the religion He has left, to the bottom ; 
not in those artificial theories, which have done it the 
most essential injury; or in their manner, who assume 
His name, but overlook His example, and who are 
forever talking about the merits of His death, at the 
expense of those virtues which adorn His life. 

Not in those wild and romantic notions, which, to 
make us Christians, would make us fools; but in those 
inspired writings, and in those alone, which contain 
His genuine history, and his blessed gospel; and 
which, in the most peculiar and extensive sense, are 
the words of eternal life. 

Read the scriptures, then, as you would read the 
last will of some deceased friend, in which you ex- 



OQ THE WATERFALL 

pected a large bequest; and tell me, in the sincerity 
of your soul, what you see there to circumscribe the 
social affections, to crush the risings of benevolence, 
or to check the generous effusions of humanity. Lit- 
tleness of mind and narrowness of temper, were cer- 
tainly no parts of our Saviour's character; and He 
enjoins nothing which He did not uniformly and 
minutely exemplify. 



THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 

' Begone, thou fond, presumptuous Elf!' 

Exclaimed a thundering voice, 
' Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 

Between me and my choice!' 
A small cascade, fresh swollen with snows, 
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 
That, all bespattered with his foam. 
And dancing high, and dancing low, 
Was living, as a child might know, 
In an unhappy home. 

' Dost thou presume my course to block; 

Off ! off ! or, puny thing, 
I'll hurl thee headlong, with the rock 

To which thy fibres cling!' 
The flood was tyrannous and strong; 
The patient Briar suffered long, 
Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 
Hoping the danger would be past: 
But, seeing no relief, at last. 
He ventured to reply. 



AND THE EGLANTINE. 29 

*Ah!' said the Briar, ^ blame me not ; 

Why should we dwell in strife ? 
We who in this sequestered spot, 

Once lived a happy life ! 
You stirred me on my rocky bed — 
What pleasure through my veins you spread! 
The summer long, from day to day. 
My leaves you freshened and bedewed; 
Nor was it common gratitude 
That did your cares repay. 

* When Spring came on with bud and bell, 

Among these rocks did I 
Before you hang my wreath, to tell 

That gentle days were nigh! 
And in the sultry, summer hours, 
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; 
And in my leaves, now shed and gone, 
The Linnet lodged, and for us two, 
Chanted his pretty songs, when you 
Had little voice, or none. 

' But now proud thoughts are in your breast — 

What grief is mine to see! 
Ah! would you think, even yet, how blest 

Together we might be ! 
Though, of both leaf and flower bereft, 
Some ornaments to me are left — 
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
With which I, in my humble way. 
Would deck you many a winter's day, 
A happy Eglantine!' 

What more he said I cannot tell. 
The torrent thundered down the dell 

3* 



30 AMERICAN PATRIOTISM. 

Reckless of all it passed. 
I listened, but nought else could hear — 
The Briar quaked, and much I fear 

Those accents were his last. 

Wordsworth. 



AMERICAN PATRIOTISM, 

An Extract from Patrick Henry's Speech in the Convention of the Delegates 
of Virginia, March, 1775, upon a resolution for organizing the Militia. 

Mr. President, — The gentlemen who are opposed 
to our resisting with arms the aggressions of Great 
Britain, tell us, sir, that we are weak, unable to cope 
with so formidable an adversary. 

But, sir, when shall we be stronger? Will it be 
the next week, or the next year .'^ Will it be when we 
are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall 
be stationed in every house ? Shall we gather strength 
by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the 
means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our 
backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, 
until our enemies shall have bound us hand and 
foot? 

Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of 
those means which the God of nature has placed in 
our power. Three millions of people, armed in the 
holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that 
which we possess, are invincible by any force which 
our enemy can send against us. 

Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. 
There is a just God who presides over the destinies 
of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our 



FRIENDSHIP. 31 

battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong 
alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. 

Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base 
enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from 
the contest. There is no retreat, but in submission 
and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking 
may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is 
inevitable; and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it 
come! 

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gen- 
tlemen may cry, peace, peace; but there is no peace. 
The war is actually begun! The next gale that 
sweeps from the north, will bring to our ears the clash 
of resounding arms! 

Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand 
we here idle ? What is it that gentlemen wish ? What 
would they have ? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, 
as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? 
Forbid it, Heaven! I know not what course others 
may take: but as for me, give me liberty, or give me 
death! 



FRIENDSHIP. 

What power can prop a sinking soul. 

Oppressed with woes and sick of grief. 
Bid the warm tear forbear to roll, 
Despair's heart-rending sigh control, 
And whisper sweet relief ? 

Friendship! sweet balm for sorrow's smart, 
In thee the soothing power is found. 



32 FRIENDSHIP. 

To heal the lacerated heart, 
Extract affliction's venomed dart, 
And close the rankling wound. 

When pierced by grief 's chill tempest through, 
The tendril bends beneath its power, 

Thou canst the broken plant renew; 

Thy sacred tear like heavenly dew, 
Revives the drooping flower. 

If Fortune frown — if health depart. 
Or death divide the tenderest tie, 

Friendship can raise the sinking heart, 

A glow of real joy impart, 
And wipe the tearful eye. 

If foes without attack our name, 

Or foes within assault our peace, 
Then Friendship's pure celestial flame, 
Can soothe the mind — defend our fame. 
And bid assailants cease. 

If hopeless Love our bliss destroy, 
And fill the breast with black despair. 

All peace such sufferers can enjoy. 

Is built by Friendship's kind employ, 
Which lessens every care. 

Come, then, sweet power, of source divine, 
For ever glow within my breast; 

My earliest friend be ever mine. 

One link our hearts in union join. 
To make each other blest 



INTEMPERANCE. 33 



THE INTEMPERATE HUSBAND^ 

It is, my friends, in the degradation of a husband 
by intemperance, where she, who has ventured every 
thing, feels that all is lost. Who shall protect her, 
when the husband of her choice insults and oppresses 
her? What shall delight her, when she shrinks from 
the sight of his face, and trembles at the sound of his 
voice ? 

The hearth is indeed dark, that he has made deso- 
late. There, through the dull midnight hour^ her 
griefs are whispered to herself; her bruised heart 
bleeds in secret. There, while the cruel author of 
her distress is drowned in distant revelry, she holds 
her solitary vigil, waiting, yet dreading his return, 
that is only to wring from her by unkindness, tears 
even more scalding than those she sheds over his 
transgression. 

To fling a deeper gloom across the present, memory 
turns back, and broods upon the past. The joys of 
other days come over her, as if only to mock her 
grieved and weary spirit. 

She recalls the ardent lover, whose graces won her 
from the home of her infancy; the enraptured father, 
who bent with such delight over his new-born chil- 
dren; and she asks, if this can be the same; this 
sunken being, who has now nothing for her but the 
sot's disgusting brutality; nothing for those abashed 
and trembling children, but the sot's disgusting ex 
ample ! 

Can we wonder, that amid these agonizing moments, 



34 YOUTH. 

the tender cords of violated affection should snap 
asunder? that the scorned and deserted wife should 
confess, ' there is no killing like that which kills the 
heart?' that though it would have been hard to kiss 
for the last time the cold lips of a dead husband, and 
lay his body forever in the dust, it is harder still to be- 
hold him so debasing life, that even death would be 
greeted in mercy ? 

Had he died in the light of his goodness, bequeath- 
ing to his family the inheritance of an untarnished 
name, and the example of virtues that should blossom 
for his sons and daughters from the tomb ; though she 
would have wept bitterly indeed, the tears of grief 
would not have been also the tears of shame. 

She beholds him, fallen from the station he once 
adorned, degraded from eminence to ignominy; at 
home, turning his dwelling to darkness, and its holy 
endearments to mockery; abroad, thrust from the 
companionship of the worthy, a self-branded outlaw. 

Sprague. 



YOUTH. 



What is youth like ? 'tis like a flower 
That opens to the morning sun, 
That 's lovely to the eye an hour. 
When lo, its blushing beauty 's gone. 

*Tis like a dream, when fancy reigns. 
And spreads her airy mantle round, 



YOUTH. 35 

Imagination rules the brain, 

And judgment lies in sleep profound. 

'Tis like a fragile bark when tost, 
High bounding o'er the restless wave, 
That 's in a moment wrecked and lost 
Forever in a watery grave. 

'Tis like the spring when verdure yields 
A pleasing prospect to the eye, 
Whose vestments, through a thousand fields, 
Lose, by the summer's sun, their die. 

'Tis like the infant ice laid o'er 
The peaceful bosom of the lake, 
Where boys, adventurous from the shore, 
Their sudden, woful exit make. 

'Tis like a faithless promise' lure. 
That prospect paints to fancy's eye, 
Which renders disappointment sure. 
And leaves the lamp of hope to die. 

'Tis like the faUing snow, you 've seen 
Descending from its frozen store. 
When driven on the running stream, 
It disappears — is seen no more. 

'Tis like those varying colors bright, 
Reflected from an evening cloud, 
Which, fading at the approach of night, 
Are mantled in a murky shroud. 



36 MASTER AND SLAVE. 



MASTER AND SLAVE. 



Master, Now, villain! what have you to say for 
this second attempt to run away ? Is there any pun- 
ishment that you do not deserve? 

Slave, I well know that nothing 1 can say will 
avail. I submit to my fate. 

Master. But are you not a base fellow, a hardened 
and ungrateful rascal? 

Slave. I am a slave. That is answer enough. 

Master. I am not content with that answer. I 
thought I discerned in you some tokens of a mind su- 
perior to your condition. I treated you accordingly. 
You have been comfortably fed and lodged, not over- 
worked, and attended with the most humane care 
when you were sick. And is this the return? 

Slave. Since you condescend to talk with me as 
man to man, I will reply. VV^hat have you done, what 
can you do for me, that will compensate for the lib- 
erty which you have taken away ? 

Master. I did not take it away. You was a slave, 
when I fairly purchased you. 

Slave. Did I give my consent to the purchase ? 

Master. You had no consent to give. You had 
already lost the right of disposing of yourself. 

Slave. I had lost the power, but how the right? I 
was treacherously kidnapped in my own country, when 
following an honest occupation. I was put in chains, 
sold to one of your countrymen, carried by force on 
board his ship, brought hither, and exposed to sale 
like a beast in the market, where you bought me. 
What step in all this progress of violence and injus- 
tice can give a right ? Was it in the villain who stole 



MASTER AND SLAVE. 37 

me, in the slave merchant who tempted hhn to do so, 
or in you who encouraged the slave merchant to bring 
his cargo of human cattle to cultivate your lands? 

Master. It is in the order of Providence that one 
man should become subservient to another. It ever 
has been so, and ever will be. I found the custom, 
and did not make it. 

Slave. You cannot but be sensible, that the robber 
who puts a pistol to your breast may make just the 
same plea. Providence gives him a power over your 
life and property; it gave my enemies a power over 
my liberty. But it has also given me legs to escape 
with; and what should prevent me from using them? 
JVay, what should restrain me from retaliating the 
wrongs I have suffered, if a favorable occasion should 
offer? 

Master, Gratitude; I repeat, — gratitude! Have 
not I endeavored ever since I possessed you to allevi- 
ate your misfortunes by kind treatment, and does that 
confer no obligation? Consider how much worse your 
condition might have been under another master. 

Slave. You have done nothing for me more than 
for your working cattle. Are they not well fed and 
tended ? Do you work them harder than your slaves ? 
Is not the rule of treating both, only your own advan- 
tage? You treat both your men and beast slaves 
better than some of your neighbors, because you are 
more prudent and wealthy than they. 

Master. You might add, more humane too. 

Slave. Humane! Does it deserve that appellation 
to keep your fellow men in forced subjection, deprived 
of all exercise of their free-will, liable to all the inju- 
ries that your own caprice, or the brutality of your 
overseers, may heap on them, and devoted soul and 

4 



38 MASTER AND SLAVE. 

body, only to your pleasure and emolument? Can 
gratitude take place between creatures in such a state, 
and the tyrant who holds them in it ? Look at these 
limbs — are they not those of a man? think that I have 
the spirit of a man, too ! 

Master, But it was my intention not only to make 
your life tolerably comfortable at present, but to pro- 
vide for you in your old age. 

Slave, Alas! is a life like mine, torn from coun- 
try, friends, and all I held dear, and compelled to toil 
under the burning sun for a master, worth thinking 
about for old age ? No — the sooner it ends, the sooner 
I shall obtain that relief for which my soul pants. 

Master. Is it possible, then, to hold you by any ties 
but those of constraint and severity ? 

Slave. It is impossible to make one who has felt 
the value of freedom, acquiesce in being a slave. 

Master. Suppose I were to restore you to your lib- 
erty, would you reckon that a favor? 

Slave. The greatest: for although it would be only 
undoing a wrong, I know too well how few among 
mankind are caoable of sacrificing interest to justice, 
not to prize the exertion when it is made. 

Master. I do it, then; — be free. 

Slave. Now I am indeed your servant, though not 
your slave. And, as the first return I can make for 
your kindness, I will tell you freely the condition in 
which you live. You are surrounded with implacable 
foes, who long for a safe opportunity to revenge upon 
you and the other planters all the miseries they have 
endured. The more generous their natures, the more 
indignant they feel against that cruel injustice which 
has dragged them hither and doomed them to perpet- 
ual servitude. You can rely on no kindness on your 



THE WARRIOR. 39 

part to soften the obduracy of their resentment. You 
have reduced them to the state of brute beasts; and 
if they have not the stupidity of beasts of burden, they 
must have the ferocity of beasts of prey. Superior 
force alone can give you security. As soon as that 
fails, you are at the mercy of the merciless. Such is 
the social bond between master and slave! 



THE WARRIOR. 

A gallant form is passing by, — 

The plume bends o'er his lordly brow; 

A thousand tongues have raised on high 
His song of triumph now. 

Young knees are bending round his way. 

And age makes bare his locks of gray. 

Fair forms have lent their gladdest smile, — 
White hands have waved the conqueror on. 

And flowers have decked his path, the while, 
By gentle fingers strown. - 

Soft tones have cheered him, and the brow 

Of beauty beams uncovered now. 

The bard hath waked the song for him, 
And poured his boldest numbers forth; 

The wine-cup sparkling to the brim, 
Adds frenzy to the mirth ; 

And every tongue and every eye 

Does homage to the passer by. 



40 THE WARRIOR. 

The gallant steed treads proudly on; — 
His foot falls firmly now, as when 

In strife, that iron heel went down. 
Upon the hearts of men; 

And foremost in the ranks of strife, 

Trod out the last dim spark of life. 

Dream they of these — the glad and gay 
That bend around the conqueror's path? 

The horrors of the conflict day — 
The gloomy field of death — 

The ghastly stain — ^the severed head — 

The raven stooping o'er the dead! 

Dark thoughts and fearful! yet they bring 
No terrors to the triumph hour; 

Nor stay the reckless worshipping 
Of blended crime and power. 

The fair of form, the mild of mood 

Do honor to the man of blood! 

Men, Christians! pause! — ^the air you breathe 

Is poisoned by your idol now; 
And will you turn to him, and wreath 

Your chaplets round his brow? 
Nay, call his darkest deeds sublime. 
And smile assent to giant crime ? 

Forbid it, heaven! — a voice Hath gone 
In mildness and in meekness forth, 

Hushing before its silvery tone, 
The stormy things of earth. 

And whispering sweetly through the gloom, 

An earnest of the peace to come. 



THE PASSION FOR DRESS. 41, 



THE PASSION FOR DRESS. 

Is it not strange that man can be vain of his attire ? 
Does he wear fine clothes? Let him give the credit 
to the weaver and the tailor. Is man a moral, mtelli- 
gent being; and shall he swell with no higher ambi- 
tion than the peacock? Surely the fluttering fop, who 
places all excellence in the cut and quality of his coat, 
if he ever possessed, must have wholly lost, the dignity 
of human nature. 

It is a mark of a little mind to seek distinction by 
dress. It is the mind which constitutes the dignity of 
man. The powers of the mind are vast and enlarging. 
It is capable of clear conceptions and elevated senti- 
ments. It can propose high ends and comprehend 
mighty schemes. To see this lofty mind dwindling to 
the dimensions of a wardrobe, deliberating with anx- 
ious solemnity on the color of a waistcoat, the rela- 
tions of a cape, or the fitness of a shoe; this is hum- 
bling indeed: I blush for the name of man. 

This passion for dress has been called a trifling 
weakness. What! is it nothing to cast away reason, 
to degrade the soul ? Is it nothing to sacrifice moral 
powers and feelings, to blast the hope and promise of 
our nature ? If any man is endowed with mind and a 
capacity of perceiving excellence, then this love of 
dress is worse than suicide, and bears sad testimony 
to the debasement of his heart. 

What improvement might we anticipate, if the time, 
which is now wasted in contriving and preparing arti- 
cles of dress, were applied to the cultivation of the 
heart and understanding ? Ye vain, would you indeed 
be adorned ? Seek the ornaments of truth, of purity, 
4* 



42 THE COMMON LOT. 

of benevolence. These will clothe you in unfading 
glory. These will be in fashion through eternity. 
Do you desire to acquire and feel importance when 
you mingle with the world? Believe me, there is a 
consciousness of honest, undesigning goodness, that 
inspires a confidence and an ease, which the gaudiness 
of foppery can never attain. *dnthology. 



THE COMMON LOT. 

Once in the flight of ages past, 
There lived a man: — and who was he? 
—Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
That Man resembled Thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth. 
The land in which he died unknown; 
His name hath perished from the earth, 
This truth survives alone: 

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 
Alternate triumphed in his breast; 
His bliss and wo, — a smile a tear! 
— Oblivion hides the rest. 

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
The changing spirits' rise and fall; 
We know that these were felt by him, 
For these are felt by all. 

He suffered, — but his pangs are o'er; 
Enjoyed, — but his delights are fled ; 
Had friends, — his friends are now no more; 
And foes, — his foes are dead. 



CHANGES IN HUMAN LIFE. 43 

He loved, — but whom he loved, the grave 
Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 
O she was fair! — but nought could save 
Her beauty from the tomb. 

The rolling seasons, day and night. 
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 
Erewhile his portion, life and light. 
To him exist in vain. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen. 
Encountered all that troubles thee; 
He was — ^whatever thou hast been; 
He is — what thou shalt be. 

The clouds and sunbeams o'er his eye 
That once their shades and glory threw, 
Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 
Their ruins, since the world began, 
Of HIM afford no other trace. 
Than this, — there lived a man ! 



CHANGES IN HUMAN LIFE. 

All the rivers run into the sea, and would soon 
cease, were they not continued by a succession of 
waters. The human race is preserved by a succes- 
sion of mortals. One generation passes away, and an- 
other comes. Thus the inhabitants of the earth abide 



44 CHANGES IN HUMAN LIFE. 

from age to age. The race is called the same, but the 
mortals who compose it, like the waters which consti- 
tute a river, are changing every day and every hour. 

It would be wise for us often to reflect on our 
transient condition. We are passing away like the 
floods; we have no abiding place on earth. Let us 
not set our affection on things below, but look for- 
ward to that world to which we are going. Would a 
man, hurried down a rapid stream, exult in his riches, 
because he passed along in sight of meadows, fields, 
groves, and houses? 

Would he call these his own, because he beheld 
them, and only just beheld them with his eyes? Why 
should we, who are hurried through life, and carried 
away as with a flood, glory in the worldly objects 
which we see, as we pass along, but scarcely have 
time to possess? 

We are changing our condition, and our relation to 
things around us. We are passing from place to 
place, from object to object, from scene to scene, like 
men floating down a stream. This moment flies, the 
next succeeds, and goes off* like the former, giving 
place to a successor. 

One enjoyment or amusement departs, and another 
comes. One design or employment is defeated or laid 
aside, and another taken up. Here we hope for bet- 
ter success. Here, again disappointed, we change 
our purpose. We walk in a vain show; we are dis- 
quieted in vain. 

Like men thrown out on a flood, we struggle for 
shore; we pant for rest; we seize the twig; it breaks; 
we are driven with the stream; we grasp the leaf; 
we sink; we pass from human sight, and are soon 
forgotten. 



THE PLEASURES OF OLD AGE. 45 



ON EARLY RISING. 

How foolish they who lengthen night, 
And slumber in the morning light! 
How sweet at early morning's rise, 
To view the glories of the skies! 

The sprightly lark, with artless lay, 
Proclaims the entrance of the day. 
Its fairest form then nature wears. 
And clad in brightest green appears. 

How sweet to breathe the gale's perfume, 
And feast the eyes with nature's bloom! 
Along the dewy lawn to rove, 
And hear the music of the grove! 

Nor you, ye delicate and fair. 
Neglect to take the morning air; 
This will your nerves with vigor brace. 
Improve and heighten every grace. 

'T will give your breath a rich perfume ; 
Add to your cheeks a fairer bloom; 
With lusture teach your eyes to glow. 
And health and cheerfulness bestow. 



THE PLEASURES OF OLD AGE. 

The young, who all wish to live, but who at the 
same time have a dread at growing old, may not be 



46 THE PLEASURES OF OLD AGE. 

disposed to allow the justice of the representation I 
am now to make. They regard old age as a dreary 
season, that admits of nothing which can be called 
pleasure, and very little which deserves the name even 
of comfort. They look forward to it, as in autumn 
we anticipate the approach of winter; but winter, 
though it terrifies us at a distance, has nothing very 
formidable, when it arrives. Its enjoyments are of a 
different kind; but we find it not less pleasant than 
any other season of the year. 

In like manner old age, frightful as it may be to the 
young, who view it afar off*, has no terror to them who 
see it near; but experience proves that it abounds 
with consolations, and even with delights. We should 
look therefore with pleasure on many old men, whose 
illuminated faces and hoary heads resemble one of 
those pleasant days in winter, so common in this cli- 
mate, when a bright sun darts its beams on a pure 
field of snow. The beauty of spring, the splendor of 
summer, and the glory of autumn are gone ; but the 
prospect is still lively and cheerful. 

Among other circumstances which contribute to the 
satisfaction of this period of life, is the respect with 
which old age is treated. There are, it must be ac- 
knowledged and lamented, some foolish and ill-edu- 
cated young persons, who do not pay that veneration 
which is due to the hoary head ; but these examples 
are not numerous. 

The world in general bows down to age, gives it 
precedence, and listens with deference to its opinions. 
Old age wants accommodations; and it must in jus- 
tice to man be allowed that they are afforded with 
cheerfulness. Who can deny that such reverence is 
soothing to the human mind ? and that it compensates 



PICTURE OF LIFE. 47 

us for the loss of many pleasures which are peculiar to 
youth ? 

The respect of the world in general is gratifying; 
but the respect of a man's own offspring must yield 
heartfelt delight. Can there be a more pleasing sight, 
than a venerable old man surrounded by his children 
and grandchildren, all of whom are emulous of each 
other in testifying their homage and affection? His 
children, proud of their honored father, strive who 
shall treat him with the most attention, while his 
grandchildren hang on his neck, entertain him with 
their innocent prattle, and convince him that they 
love their grandfather not less than they love their 
father. After viewing such a scene, can we possibly 
believe that it is not a blessing to live long ? and yet 
no spectacle is more common. 

Freeman, 



PICTURE OF LIFE. 

Life hath its sunshine— but the ray. 

Which flashes on its stormy wave, 
Is but the beacon of decay — 

A meteor, gleaming o'er the grave. 
And though its dawning hour is bright 

With fancy's gayest coloring. 
Yet o'er its cloud-encumbered night 

Dark ruin flaps his rav^n wing. 

Life hath its flowers — and what are they ? 
The buds of early love and truth, 



48 PICTURE OF LIFE. 

Which spring and wither in a day, 

The germs of warm, confiding youth; — 

Alas! those buds decay and die 

Ere ripened and matured in bloom — 

Even in an hour, behold them lie 
Upon the still and lonely tomb. 

Life hath its pang- — of deepest thrill — 

Thy sting, relentless memory! 
Which wakes not, pierces not, until 

The hour of joy hath ceased to be 
Then, when the heart is in its pall, 

And cold afflictions gather o'er, 
Thy mournful anthem doth recall 

Bliss, which hath died to bloom no more. 

Life hath its blessings — but the storm 

Sweeps like the desert wind in wrath. 
To sear and blight the loveliest form 

Which sports on earth's deceitful path. 
Oh ! soon the wild heart-broken wail 

So changed from youth's delightful tone, 
Floats mournfully upon the gale 

When all is desolate and lone. 

Life hath its hopes — a matin dream — 

A cankered flower — a setting sun. 
Which casts a transitory gleam 

Upon the even's cloud of dun. 
Pass but an hour, the dream hath fled, 

The flowers on earth forsaken lie — 
The sun hath set, whose lustre shed 

A light upon the shaded sky. 



THE CHOLERA. 49 



THE CHOLERA IN NEW YORK. 

At a public dinner given to John Howard Payne, the American Dramatist, 
recently returned to his native city from England, he delivered an address 
—one passage of which eloquently describes the picture of the pestilence 
at that time prevailing in New York. 

Little could I have fancied in the first hour of my 
return, that I should have had such liberalities to 
speak of, that I should have been blest with such 
friends to make my native city more than ever dear to 
me! Sir, the omens of that hour, and even of days 
which followed, would have driven a superstitious man 
back, and he would have returned no more. After an 
absence of twenty years — that little life time, twenty 
years ! — when uproused one morning by intelligence 
that the pilot was on board, and our ship within hail 
of the shore — I flew on deck. A tempest raged. 
The Angel of Death seemed careering in the clouds, 
and flinging around lightnings which almost made 
each one of us expect his own last moment in the fol- 
lowing flash. But the storm cleared, and I beheld 
the fair city of my birth enthroned upon her beautiful 
waters, and I rejoiced in belonging to such a mother, 
and that my weary pilgrimage had closed at such a 
home! But this succession of emotions was but sym- 
bolical of deeper ones to which I yet was destined; for 
when my steps sought the spots to which in earlier 
life they were accustomed, I found a severer darkness 
frowning over them in the pestilence. Houses un- 
tenanted — and those which had inhabitants, in tears 
and mourning. When I asked for many a friend 
of years gone by, I was pointed to the tomb. But 
presently the streets began to brighten into what 
they were; many a warm hand renewed the earnest 



50 POWER OF BEAUTY. 

grasp so long ago remembered; the welcome of many 
a departed parent smiled on me in their children, — 
until at length I beheld the memories of a former day 
gathering the lovely and the gallant, and the intellec- 
tual, and the affluent, in one splendid circle, where I 
could almost fancy the spirits of the long buried dead, 
who would have united at that moment, with the living 
— hovering over a scene which made me forget the 
humbleness of my own desert in exultation for the glo- 
rious privilege of once again exclaiming, as I gazed 
before me — ' The wanderer has a home, and it is 
here /' 



POWER or BEAUTY. 

Liberal nature did dispense 

To all things arms for their defence; 

And some she armed with sinewy force, 

And some with swiftness in the course; 

Some with hard hoofs, or forked claws, 

And some with horns, or tusked jaws; 

And some with scales, and some with wings, 

And some with teeth, and some with stings: 

Wisdom to man she did afford, 

Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword. 

What to beauteous wotnan kind. 

What arms, what armor, has she assigned ? 

Beauty is both; for with the fair 

What arms, what armor, can compare? 

What steel, what gold, or diamond, 

More impassable is found? 



THE LIFE OF A NAME. 51 

And yet what flame, what lightning e'er 
So great an active force did bear? 
They are all weapon, and they dart, 
Like porcupine, from ev'ry part. 



THE LIFE OF A NAME. 

The life of a name is a mere idea, a phantom, which 
can be enjoyed a few moments only, by anticipation; 
which vanishes away, as soon as a man expires; and 
which can confer no honor, no pleasure on his uncon- 
scious ashes. Besides, if there was any thing real in 
it, it would not be worthy of our anxious pursuit, be- 
cause experience and history convince us, that few 
can with reason expect to obtain it. How many of 
us are there, of whom it will be known a hundred 
years hence, that we ever existed.^ 

A tasteless antiquary, in poring over an old ga- 
zette, may possibly find our names in an obituary; 
but as we shall be painted with exactly the same fea- 
tures, and with the same color, as a thousand others 
who have preceded us, we shall remain undistinguish- 
ed in his mind. We have no particular cause to be 
mortified; because, like our names, the names of most 
of our fellow-citizens will soon sink into the gulf of ob- 
livion. 

Even great men, if they have not an opportunity of 
acting a conspicuous part, or the good fortune to make 
an important discovery, or to strike out something 
remarkably brilliant, are not long remembered. The 
heroes and patriots who achieved our revolution, and 
to whom we owe our independence, are fast hastening 



52 THE SUMMER MORNING. 

to the land of forgetfulness. We talk of eight or ten 
warriors and statesmen; but probably, after the lapse 
of twenty centuries, only one name will be left in our 
annals. I appeal to history and the sacred scriptures 
in support of this opinion. Who of us knows any 
thing of the generals of Joshua and Cyrus ?^ — or, in 
later periods, of those of Charlemagne and Alfred? 

Authors, who treat original subjects, have a more 
probable prospect of immortalizing their names, than 
either statesmen or heroes; but even with them the 
chance is small. Of few ancient writers have we ever 
heard; and even of the authors who are near our own 
times, not many are remembered. In truth, time, 
like a mighty giant, treads down every thing before 
him — here and there he spares a great name, to mark 
the existence of former ages; but the rest he tramples 
under foot, and sinks them in oblivion. Freeman, 



THE SUMMER MORNING. 

The cocks have now the morn foretold, 

The sun again begins to peep. 
The shepherd, whistling to his fold, 

Unpens and frees the captive sheep. 
O'er pathless plains, at early hours. 

The sleepy rustic slowly goes; 
The dews, brushed off from grass and flowers 

Bemoistening, sop his hardened shoes; — 

While every leaf that forms a shade. 

And every floweret's silken top. 
And every shivering bent and blade, 



FEAR AND PUNISHMENT. 53 

Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop. 
But soon shall fly those diamond drops; 

The red round sun advances higher, 
And, stretching o'er the mountain tops, 

Is gilding sweet the village spire. 

'T is sweet to meet the morning breeze. 

Or list the gurgling of the brook; 
Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees. 

Peruse and pause on nature's book, 
When nature every sweet prepares 

To entertain our wished delay, — 
The images which morning wears, 

The wakening charms of early day! 

Now let me tread the meadow paths, 

While glittering dew the ground illumes. 
As, sprinkled o'er the withering swaths, 

Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes; 
And hear the beetle sound his horn; 

And hear the sky-lark whistling nigh, 
Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, 

A hailing minstrel in the sky. J. Clare. 



FEAR AND PUNISHMENT. 

Do we not every day observe in other men, or 
experience in ourselves, that sin is punished, or that 
it produces evil consequences } If this punishment is 
wrong, the constitution of nature is wrong; but can it 
be altered by us } — If he who sins, injures himself, 
destroys himself, renders himself miserable; is it not 

5# 



54 THE PATH OF LIFE. 

right, is it not benevolent, to warn him not to persist 
in his wickedness, and not to injure himself any more? 

Do not fear and punishment produce good effects? 
do they not restrain men from committing sin? Can 
it be denied, that many are kept within the bounds of 
temperance and chastity by the apprehension of the 
wretchedness and degradation, which follow an indul- 
gence in the contrary vices? Does not the fear of 
censure preserve many from rash speeches, and that 
imprudence of behavior which sports on the brink of 
vice? Can it be' denied, that the penalties inflicted 
by courts of justice terrify multitudes, and prevent 
them from becoming thieves, when otherwise they 
would not be scrupulous in making a free use of the 
property of their neighbor ? 

Bad as some men are, would they not be worse, if 
they believed that they could commit crimes with im- 
punity, and if all fear of punishment was removed from 
their minds? If these causes can operate thus effec- 
tually with respect to the present world, why should 
they not operate with respect to the other world ? If 
men are made honest, discreet, temperate, and chaste, 
by these motives, why should they not by the same 
motives be deterred from profaneness and impiety ? 

Freeman. 



THE PATH OF LIFE. 

Oh! I have thought, and thinking sighed — 
How like to thee, thou restless tide! 
May be the lot, the life of him. 
Who roams along thy water's brim! 



PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 55 

Through what alternate shades of wo, 
And flowers of joy, my path may go! 
How many an humble, still retreat 
May rise to court my weary feet. 
While still pursuing, still unblest, 
I wander on, nor dare to rest! 
But, urgent as the doom that calls 
Thy water to its destined falls, 
I see the world's bewildering force 
Hurry my heart's devoted course 
From lapse to lapse, till life be done, 
And the lost current cease to run! 
Oh may my falls be bright as thine! 
May heaven's forgiving rainbow shine 
Upon the mist that circles me, 
As soft, as now it hangs o'er thee! 



PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 

Are you proud of your wealth? do you boast of the 
honorable ancestors from whom you are descended? 
are you vain of your beauty, or of your exalted rank? 
Take heed to yourselves, and remember that you are 
dust, and that you will return to dust. Think of them, 
who before you have performed a splendid part on the 
theatre of human life ! 

Where is the wise magistrate — the brave soldier — 
the eloquent orator — the captivating beauty ? Are they 
any thing but dust — any thing but a fable ? Is not all 
their glory reduced to a small heap of bones ? Look 
into their tombs, and see whether you can distinguish 
the master from the servant — the rich from the poor — 



56 ADDRESS TO SCIENCE. 

the conqueror from the captive — the strong from the 
weak — the beautiful from the deformed! 

On the other hand^ are you depressed by the weight 
of calamity? do you live in poverty and obscurity? 
are you subjected to the insolence of the proud? Do 
not therefore be cast down; nor expel hope from your 
bosom, because you are in adversity; but rather re- 
flect on the blessings which God has already bestow- 
ed on you, and meditate on the felicity which he has 
promised you in future. 

Remember, my young friends, that you are the chil- 
dren of God himself, — formed by his own hand, and 
in his own glorious image! Why then are you sor- 
rowful? Is it because your apartment is not lighted 
up with wax tapers? but you have the sun, which 
through the whole day hangs out his golden lamp. Is 
it because the polished mirror does not reverberate 
their feeble splendor? but you have the moon, whose 
silver rays shine on you with celestial light. Can you 
not sleep except on down? On your hard bed your 
sleep is sweet, profound, and undisturbed by terrifying 
dreams. It is not indeed given to you to repose under 
a painted ceiling ; but you are covered with a magni- 
ficent canopy of celestial blue, vaulted with inexpres- 
sible art, and spangled with stars of indescribable 
beauty. Freeman, 



ADDRESS TO SCIENCE. 

Sun of the soul ! thy beams unveil ! 
Let others spread the daring sail, 
On fortune's faithless sea; 



THE COLONISTS. 57 

While, undeluded, happier, I 
From the vain tumult timely fly. 
And sit in peace with thee. 

Hail, queen of manners! light of truth! 
Hail! charm of age, and guide of youth; 

Sweet refuge of distress: 
In business thou, exact, polite, 
Thou giv'st retirement its delight, 

Prosperity its grace. 

Of wealth, power, freedom, thou the cause! 
Foundress of orders, cities, laws, 

Of arts inventress thou ! 
Without thee, what were human kind! 
How vast their wants, their thoughts how blind! 

Their joys, how mean, how few! 



THE COLONISTS. 

Mr. Barlow one day invented a play for his children, on purpose to show 
them what kind of persons and professions are the most useful in society, 
and particularly in a new settlement. It was the Colonists. Colonists are 
the people \vho go to live together in a new country. Mr. Barlow was 
the founder of the colony. Founder is a beginner. Profession is a man's 
business or trade. 

Mr. Barlow. ' Come, my boys, I have a new play 
for you. I will be the founder of a colony; and you 
shall be people of different trades and professions, 
coming to offer yourselves to go with me. — What are 
you, Arthur.'^' 

Arthur. I am a farmer, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. Very well ! Farming is the chief 
thing we have to depend upon. The farmer puts the 



58 THE COLONISTS. 

seed into the earth, and takes care of it when it is 
grown to the ripe corn; without the farmer we should 
have no bread. But you must w^ork very hard; there 
will be trees to cut down, and roots to drag out, and a 
great deal of labor. 

Arthur. I shall be ready to do my part. 

Mr. Barlow. Well, then I shall take you willingly, 
and as many more such good fellows as you can find. 
We shall have land enough; and you may fall to 
work as soon as you please. Now for the next. 

Beverly. I am a miller, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. A very useful trade ! our corn must 
be ground, or it will do us but little good; what must 
we do for a mill, my friend? 

Beverly. I suppose we must make one. 

Mr. Barlow. Then we must take ^milUwright ^N\i\l 
us, and carry mill-stones. Who is next? 

Charles. I am a carpenter, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. The most necessary man that could 
offer. We shall find you work enough, never fear. 
There will be houses to build, fences to make, and 
chairs and tables besides. But all our timber is 
growing; we shall have hard work to fell it, to saw 
boards and planks, to hew timber, and to frame and 
raise buildings. 

Charles. I will do my best, sir. 

Mr, Barlow. Then I engage you, but you had 
better bring two or three able hands along with you. 

Delville. I am a blacksmith. 

Mr. Barlow. An excellent companion for the car- 
penter. We cannot do without either of you. You 
must bring your great bellows, anvil, and vice, and 
we will set up a forge for you, as soon as we arrive. 
By the by, we shall want a mason for that. 



THE COLONISTS. 59 

Edward. I am one, sir. 

Mr, Barlow. Though we may live in log houses 
at first, we shall want brick work, or stone work, for 
chimneys, hearths, and ovens, so there will be em- 
ployment for a mason. Can you make bricks and 
burn lime? 

Edward. I will try what I can do, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. No man can do more. I engage you. 
Who is next? 

Francis. I am a shoemaker. 

Mr. Barlow. Shoes we cannot do well without, 
but I fear we shall get no leather. 

Francis. But I can dress skins, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. Can you? Then you are a clever 
fellow. I will have you, though I give you double 
wages. 

George. I am a tailor, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. We must not go naked; so there will 
be work for the tailor. But you are not above mending, 
I hope, for we must not mind wearing patched clothes, 
while we work in the woods. 

George. I am not, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. Then I engage you, too. 

Henry. I am a silversmith, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. Then, my friend, you cannot go to a 
worse place than a new colony to set up your trade in. 

Henry. But I understand clock and watch making 
too. 

Mr. Barlow. We shall want to know how time 
goes, but we cannot afford to employ you. At pres- 
ent you had better stay where you are. 

Jasper. I am a barber and hair dresser. 

Mr. Barlow. What can we do with you ? If you 
will shave our men's rough beards once a week, and 



60 THE COLONISTS. 

crop their hairs once a quarter, and be content to help 
the carpenter the rest of the time, we will take you. 
But you will have no ladies to curl, or gentlemen to 
powder, I assure you. 

Lewis, I am a doctor. 

Mr. Barlow, Then, sir, you are very welcome; 
we shall some of us be sick, and we are likely to get 
cuts, and bruises, and broken bones. You will be 
very useful. We shall take you with pleasure. 

Maurice, I am a lawyer, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. ' Sir, your most obedient servant. 
When we are rich enough to go to law, we will let 
you know. 

Oliver. I am a schoolmaster. 

Mr. Barlow, That is a very respectable and useful 
profession — as soon as our children are old enough,^ 
we shall be glad of your services. Though we are 
hard working men, we do not mean to be ignorant; 
every one among us must be taught reading and writ- 
ing. Until we have employment for you in teaching, 
if you will keep our accounts, and at present read ser- 
mons to us on Sundays, we shall be glad to have you 
among us. Will you go ? 

Oliver. With all my heart, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. Who comes here? 

Philip. I am a soldier, sir; will you have me? 

Mr. Barlow. We are peaceable people, and I hope 
we shall not be obHged to fight. We are all soldiers 
and must learn to defend ourselves; we shall have no 
occasion for you unless you can be a mechanic or a 
farmer as well as a soldier. 

Robert. I am a gentleman, sir. 

Mr. Barlow. A gentleman! And what good can 
you do us ? 



THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 61 

RobeH. I expect to shoot game enough for my own 
eating; you can give me a Httle bread and a few 
vegetables; and the barber shall be my servant. 

Jtfr. Barlow, Pray, sir, why should we do all this 
for you ? 

Robert. Why, sir, that you may have the credit of 
saying, that you have one gentleman at least in your 
colony, 

Mr. Barlow. Ha, ha, ha ! A fine gentleman truly. 
Sir, when we desire the honor of your company, we 
will send for you. Dr. AiJdn. 



THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 

Friend after friend departs; 

Who hath not lost a friend ? 
There is no union here of hearts 

That finds not here an end; 
Were this frail world our final rest, 
Living or dying none were blest. 

Beyond the flight of time, — 
Beyond the reign of death, — 

There surely is some blessed clime 
Where life is not a breath; 

Nor life's affections, transient fire. 

Whose sparks fly upward and expire 

There is a world above. 
Where parting is unknown; 

A long eternity of love. 
Formed for the good alone ; 
6 



«r 



62 ON CHOICE OF COMPANY. 

And faith beholds the dying, here. 
Translated to that glorious sphere ! 

Thus star by star declines. 

Till all are passed away; 
As morning high and higher shines, 

To pure and perfect day; 
Nor sink those stars in empty night, 
But hide themselves in heaven's own light. 

Montgomery. 



ON CHOICE OF COMPANY, 

The society of the world will be found very differ- 
ent from that of your school associates. It will be 
more diversified, and subject to fewer restraints. 
Now, to young persons, the society of the gay, the idle, 
and the dissipated, will present peculiar allurements. 
It will open before you a thousand avenues of seduc- 
tion, and the syren voice of pleasure will be heard 
singing deceitfully at the entrance of each. While 
your passions are strong, — while you are yet untaught 
by experience, — and while you are so easily accessi- 
ble through the frailties of your nature, there is danger 
that those who compose this society should exercise an 
undue influence on your minds, and on your conduct. 

They will greatly surpass you in their knowledge 
of the world. They will appear to you free from care, 
free from the drudgery of labor, and exempt from any 
restraints on their natural inchnations and desires. 
They will probably arrogate to themselves the exclu- 
sive possession of genius, contemn the labor of study, 



ON CHOICE OF COMPANY. 63 

and despise the ordinary pursuits of life. They will 
endeavor to allure you to their society, by all the 
frailties within your own bosoms,' and by all the grati- 
fications you can be made to fancy they enjoy. But 
be well assured that their pleasures are all hollow and 
heartless, as their professions are deceptive and false. 

Should you cast your lot with them, you can expect 
nothing from their communion but disgrace and ruin. 
You must either avoid them, or become their vic- 
tims or their slaves. If you join yourselves to their 
society, you will soon be induced to become partakers 
in their vices and their follies; otherwise, your reserve 
will be regarded as a reproach on their conduct, which 
will not be endured. You will be charged with want 
of spirit, or with being influenced by some sinister mo- 
tive. Incapable themselves of acting on high and 
honorable principles, they will throw on you the Im- 
putation of being actuated by some superstitious reli- 
gious terror, or by some selfish desire to acquire the 
favor of a particular portion of the community. 

Under the smart of such imputations, or even under 
the mere apprehension of them, how many wavering 
youth have we seen carried away by the current of 
dissipation.'* At first, they yield a reluctant consent 
to conduct of a doubtful character. Next, they be- 
come abettors and actors in scenes which they cannot 
approve. By and by, they advance further in vice; 
and rather than forego the approbation of their com- 
panions, and incur the charge of motives which they 
are conscious of being free from, they stifle the re- 
proaches of conscience, and plunge deeply into guilt; 
and in the end, are ready to commit with greediness, 
actions which they formerly shunned with caution, and 
regarded with abhorrence. 



64 ON CHOICE OF COMPANY. 

I now appeal to your candor; — Do not such men 
sacrifice every truly honorable, and every manly prin- 
ciple ? Do they not absolutely renounce all true inde- 
pendence of character, and become voluntary slaves 
to the folly and caprice of their companions? Like 
the political demagogue, they stoop to those they 
despise. They associate with those whom they cannot 
respect. They slander those whose worth they can- 
not emulate. They maintain opinions which they dis- 
believe, and withhold sentiments which they approve. 
And to complete their degradation, they find them- 
selves compelled to pay the most obsequious court to 
those whom they know to be contemptible, both by 
their ignorance and their vices. 

Do not flatter yourselves, that you can associate 
with such company, without suffering in your reputa- 
tion, or without being contaminated in your minds. A 
man will be judged by the company which he keeps. 
' Tell me whom you live with, and I will tell you what 
you are,' says the Spanish proverb. We gradually 
assume the manners, habits and sentiments, of those 
with whom we associate ; and it is impossible that we 
should hold habitual communion with the mean and 
the vile, without being degraded and debased. 

In choosing your companions and friends, then, seek 
the society of the reputable, the wise, and the good. 
It is indeed, your duty to cherish kindly sentiments 
toward all men; and, in your general intercourse with 
the world, to exercise a courteous deportment toward 
all; but in selecting your circle of social intercourse, 
and in choosing the friends of your bosom, your duty, 
your interest, and your happiness require, that you 
should restrict yourselves to the intelligent and the 
virtuous. Bp, BrotvnelL 



YOUTH AND AGE. 65 



YOUTH AJVD AGE. 

With cheerful step the traveller 

Pursues his early way, 
When first the dimly dawning east 

Reveals the rising day. 

He bounds along his craggy road; 

He hastens up the height, 
And all he sees and all he hears 

Administer delight. 

And if the mist, retiring slow, 
Roll round its wavy white. 

He thinks the morning vapors hide 
Some beauty from his sight. 

But when behind the western clouds 

Departs the fading day. 
How wearily the traveller 

Pursues his evening way ! 

Sorely along the cragged road 
His painful footsteps creep; 

And slow, with many a feeble pause. 
He labors up the steep. 

And if the mists of night close round 
They fill his soul with fear, 

He dreads some unseen precipice, 
Some hidden danger near. 



66 THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON. 

So cheerfully does youth begin 
Life's pleasant morning stage; 

Alas ! the evening traveller feels 

The fears of weary age! Southey, 



THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON. 

In the month of May, 1833, the comer stone was laid for a monument to be 
erected at Frederickburg, Va., to the memory of the Mother of Washing- 
ton. The expense of this praiseworthy enterprise is paid by Silas E. 
Burrows, a wealthy citizen of New York. The occasion was rendered 
doubly interesting by the presence of many distinguished individuals. 
After an address by the committee of arrangements, another was deliv- 
ered by Andrew Jackson, President of the United States. From the 
latter, the following valuable extract is made. 

Tradition says, that the character of Washington 
was aided and strengthened, if not formed, by the care 
and precepts of his mother. She was remarkable for 
the vigor of her intellect and the firmness of her reso- 
lution. Left in early life the sole parent of a young 
and numerous family, she devoted herself with exem- 
plary fidelity to the task of guiding and educating 
them. With limited resources she was able, by care 
and economy, to provide for them, and to insure them 
a respectable entrance upon the duties of life. A firm 
believer in the sacred truths of religion, she taught its 
principles to her children, and inculcated an early 
obedience to its injunctions. 

It is said by those who knew her intimately, that 
she acquired and maintained a wonderful ascendency 
over those around her. This true characteristic of 
genius attended her through life ; and even in its de- 
cline, after her son had led his country to independ- 
ence, and had been called to preside over her councils. 



THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON. 67 

he approached her with the same reverence she taught 
him to exhibit in early youth. This course of mater- 
nal discipUne, no doubt restrained the natural ardor 
of his temperament, and conferred upon him that 
power of self-command, which was one of the most 
remarkable traits of his character. 

In tracing the few recollections which can be gath- 
ered of her principles and conduct, it is impossible to 
avoid the conviction that these were closely interwo- 
ven with the destiny of her son. The great points of 
her character, are before the world. He who runs may 
read them in his whole career, as a citizen, a soldier, 
a magistrate. He possessed an unerring judgment, 
if that term can be applied to human nature ; great 
probity of purpose, high moral principles, perfect self- 
possession, untiring application; an inquiring mind, 
seeking information from every quarter, and arriving 
at its conclusions with a full knowledge of the subject: 
and he added to these, an inflexibility of resolution 
which nothing could change but a conviction of error. 

Look back at the life and conduct of his mother, 
and at her domestic government, as they have been 
this day delineated by the monumental committee, 
and as they were known to her contemporaries and have 
been described by them, and they will be found admi- 
rably adapted to form and develope the elements of 
such a character. The power of greatness was there, 
but had it not been guided and directed by maternal 
solicitude and judgment, its possessor, instead of pre- 
senting to the world examples of virtue, patriotism and 
wisdom which will be precious in all succeeding ages, 
must have added to the number of those master spirits, 
Avhose fame rests upon the faculties they abused, and 
the injuries they have committed. 



68 THE DRUM. 

How important to the females of our country are 
these reminiscences of the early life of Washington, 
and of the maternal care of her upon whom its future 
course depended! Principles less firm and just, and 
affection less regulated by discretion, might have 
changed the character of the son, and with it the des- 
tinies of the nation. We have reason to be proud of 
the virtue and intelligence of our females. As moth- 
ers and sisters, and wives and daughters, their duties 
are performed with exemplary fidelity. They no doubt 
reahze the great importance of the maternal character 
and the powerful influence it must exert upon the 
American youth. 

Happy is it for them and our country that they have 
before them this illustrious example of maternal devo- 
tion, and this bright reward of filial success. The 
mother of a family who lives to witness the virtues of 
her children, and their advancement in life, and who is 
known and honored because they are known and hon- 
ored, should have no other wish, on this side the grave, 
to gratify. The seeds of virtue and of vice are early 
sown, and we may often anticipate the harvest that will 
be gathered. Changes no doubt occur, but let no one 
place his. hope upon these. Impressions made in infan- 
cy,if not indelible, are effaced with dirficulty and renew- 
ed with facility ; and upon the mother therefore must 
frequently, if not generally, depend the fate of the son. 



THE DRUM, 



I HATE that drum's discordant sound, 
Parading round and round and round ; 



UNVERSALIT^ OF RELIGION. 69 

To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, 

And lures from cities and from fields. 

To sell their liberty for charms 

Of tawdry lace and glittering arms; 

And when ambition's voice commands, 

To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. 

I hate that drum's discordant sound. 
Parading round and round and round; 
To me it talks of ravaged plains, 
And burning towns, and ruined swains, 
And mangled limbs and dying groans, 
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans. 
And all that misery's hand bestows. 
To fill the catalogue of human woes. 



UNIVERSALITY OF RELIGION. 

The worship of some divinity is coeval and conat- 
ural with the existence of man. Wherever the light 
of the sun has shone — wherever the beauties, and the 
glories, and wonders of creation have been seen, the 
footsteps of a God have been traced, and observing 
man has recognized the handy work of a divinity. 
Go to the rudest and most uncultivated age of man; 
visit the most barbarous climes that have ever been 
explored, where the dim light of nature alone has been 
seen — where the illuminations of science and the sun 
of supernatural revelation has never shone — where 
the temple for public worship has never been reared — 
nor the pious anthems of a cultivated and chastened 



70 UNIVERSALITY OF RELIGION.^ 

devotion ever ascended — or on the green banks of the 
gentle meandering Euphrates, or by the side of the 
dark rolling Ganges, or along the stealthy waters and 
sultry clime of the Niger, or amid the polar regions 
of the north, or far to the west, where the red savage 
pursues the bounding game along the wooded banks 
of the Columbia — there you will find the impress of the 
Deity enstamped on his offspring, and the child looking 
around for its father. 

And, though rude may be his manners and crude 
his conceptions, there will you find him prostrating 
himself in adoration, or in some form or other paying 
religious homage to a power which, though unseen, is 
felt to be above and around him. He knows that he 
has a being, that he had a beginning, that he did not 
create himself, and hence, that there is a power, a 
being, prior and superior to himself. And according 
to his conceptions of the nature and character of that 
being, will be his feelings and acts of devotion and 
religious homage. 

We can see the tokens of his goodness, and read in 
letters of gold his boundless love in all the vast range 
of creation. We behold them in the mechanism of 
nature, in the heaving tides of the ocean, in the lofty 
mountains and wide spread valleys of the earth, in the 
beauties of the landscape, the gurgling fountains of 
vrater, the fragrance of the air, the flowery decora- 
tions of spring, the green and luxuriant summer, the 
golden harvest of autumn, and the white robes of 
winter; — in the golden beams of the noontide sun, in 
the silver rays of night's gentle queen, and in the star- 
spangled firmament of evening, in which the Father 
of mercies seem to look down upon us with myriads of 
sparkling eyes of love. 



SIGNS OF RAIN. 71 

They are alike visible in the nice gradation of 
being, from the grovelling reptile to the burning seraph, 
in the subserviency of all to each, and each to all, 
while man holds the middle grade, and forms the con- 
necting link by which, though bound to earth and infe- 
rior objects, for a season, he is indissolubly linked 
to angels and to God, by the intellectual powers and 
faculties with which he is endowed. 

Dr. Sldnner. 



SIGNS OF RAIN. 

In the year of 1810 ibe writer of the following lines was asked by a lady if 
he thought it would rain to-morrow. He made the reply here given. 

The hollow winds begin to blow, 
The clouds look black, the glass is low; 
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, 
And spiders from their cobwebs creep — 
Last night the sun went pale to bed, 
The moon in halos hid her head — 
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh. 
For see, a rainbow spans the sky; 
The walls are damp, the ditches smell. 
Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel; 
The squalid toads at dusk were seen 
Slowly crawling o'er the green; 
Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry, 
The distant hills are looking nigh; 
Hark, how the chairs and tables crack. 
Old Betty's joints are on the rack; 
And see yon rooks, how odd their flight. 
They imitate the gliding kite 



72 . THE PRICE OF A VICTORY. 

Or seem precipitate to fall 
As if they felt the piercing ball; 
How restless are the snorting swine. 
The busy flies disturb the kine, 
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings, 
The cricket too, how loud she sings; 
Puss on the hearth with velvet paws 
Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws — 
'T will surely rain, I see, with sorrow, 
Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. 

Dr, Jenner. 



THE PRICE OF A VICTORY. 

Good news! great news! glorious news! cried 
young Oswald, as he entered his father's house. We 
have obtained a great victory, and have killed I don't 
know how many thousands of the enemy ; and we are 
to have bonfires and illuminations! 

And so, said his father, you think that killing many 
thousands of human creatures is a thing to be very 
glad about? 

Oswald. No — I do not think so, neither; but sure- 
ly it is right to be glad that our country has gained a 
great advantage. 

Father. No doubt it is right to wish well to our 
country, so far as its prosperity can be promoted with- 
out injuring the rest of mankind. But wars are very 
seldom to the real advantage of any nation; and when 
they are ever so useful or necessary, so many dread- 
ful evils attend them, that a humane man will scarcely 
rejoice in them, if he considers at all on the subject. 



THE PRICE OF A VICTORY. 73 

Oswald. But if our enemies would do us a great 
deal of mischief, and we prevent it by beating them, 
have we not a right to be glad of it ? 

Father. Alas ! we are in general incompetent 
judges which of the parties has the most mischievous 
intentions. Commonly they are both in the wrong, 
and success will make both of them unjust and unrea- 
sonable. But putting that out of the question, he who 
rejoices in the event of a battle, rejoices in the misery 
of many thousands of his species ; and the thought of 
that should make him pause a little. Suppose a sur- 
geon were to come with a smiling countenance, and 
tell us triumphantly that he had cut off half a dozen 
legs to-day — what would you think of him ? 

Oswald. I should think him very hard hearted. 

Father. And yet those operations are done for the 
benefit of the sufferers, and by their own desire. But 
in battle, the probability is, that none of those engaged 
on either side have any interest at all in the cause 
they are fighting for, and most of them come there 
because they cannot help it. In this battle that you 
are so rejoiced about, there have been ten thousand 
men killed upon the spot, and nearly as many wounded. 

Oswald. On both sides. 

Father. Yes — but they are men on both sides. 
Consider now, that the ten thousand sent out of the 
world in this morning's work, though they are past 
feeling themselves, have left probably two persons 
each, on an average, to lament their loss, either pa- 
rents, wives or children. Here are then twenty thou- 
sand people made unhappy at one stroke, on their 
account. This, however, is hardly so dreadful to 
think of as the condition of the wounded. At the 
moment we are talking, eight or ten thousand more 

7 



74 STUDIES RECOMMENDED. 

are lying in agony, torn with shot or gashed with cuts, 
their wounds festering, some hourly to die a most ex- 
cruciating death, others to linger in torture weeks and 
months, and many doomed to drag on a miserable ex- 
istence for the rest of their lives, with diseased and 
mutilated bodies. 

Oswald, This is shocking to think of, indeed! 

Father. When you light your candles, then, this 
evening, think what they cost. 



STUDIES RECOMMENDED, 

Say, dearest friend, how roll thy hours away ? 
What pleasing study cheats the tedious day; 
Dost thou the sacred volumes oft explore 
Of wise Antiquity's immortal lore. 
Where virtue, by the charms of wit refined, 
At once exalts and polishes the mind ? 
How different from our modern guilty art. 
Which pleases only to corrupt the heart. 
Whose curs'd refinements odious vice adorn, 
And teach to honor what we ought to scorn! 
Dost thou in sage historians joy to see 
How Roman greatness rose with liberty: 
How the same hands that tyrants durst control 
Their empire stretch'd from Atlas to the pole. 
Till wealth and conquest into slaves refined 
The proud luxurious masters of mankind ? 
Dost thou in lettered Greece each charm admire. 
Each grace, each virtue, freedom could inspire, 
Yet in her troubled state see all the woes, 
And all the crimes that giddy faction knows ; 



REFLECTIONS ON WATER. 75 

Till, rent by parties, by corruption sold, 

Or weakly careless, or too rashly bold, 

She sunk beneath a mitigated doom. 

The slave and tutoress of protecting Rome ? 

Does calm philosophy her aid impart, 

To guide the passions, and to mend the heart? 

Taught by her precepts hast thou learnt the end 

To which alone the wise their studies bend ; 

For which alone by nature were designed 

The powers of thought — to benefit mankind: 

Not, like a cloistered drone, to read and dose, 

In undeserving, undeserved repose; 

But reason's influence to diffuse; to clear 

Th' enlightened world of every gloomy fear; 

Dispel the mists of error, and unbind 

Those pedant chains that clog the free-born mind. 

Happy who thus his leisure can employ! 

He knows the purest hours of tranquil joy; 

Nor vexed with pangs that busier bosoms tear, 

Nor lost to social virtue's pleasing care; 

Safe in the port, yet laboring to sustain 

Those who still float on the tempestuous main. 

Lyttelton. 



REFLECTIONS ON WATER. 

Let us notice what we call water — a liquid, clear, 
and transparent body. Now it escapes from our grasp, 
and now it takes the form of whatever surrounds it, 
having none of its own. If the water were a little 
more rarified^ it would become a species of air — the 



76 REFLECTIONS ON WATER. 

whole face of nature would be dry and sterile. He 
who has given us this fluid body, has distributed it with 
care through the earth. The waters flow from the 
mountains. They assemble in the valleys, and they 
flow on in rivers, winding their way through the 
open country, that they may more effectually water it. 
At last they empty themselves into the sea, to feed 
this centre of the commerce of nations. 

This ocean, that seems an eternal separation of 
countries, is, on the contrary, the great rendezvous of 
all nations. It is over this pathless way, across this' 
profound abyss, that the old world has put forth its 
hand to the new, and that the new supplies the old 
with its treasures. 

The waters circulate through the earth, as the blood 
does through the human body. Besides this perpet- 
ual circulation, there is the ebbing and the flowing of 
the sea. We need not know the cause of this myste- 
rious effect. This we are certain of only, that the sea 
goes and returns to the same places at certain hours. 
Who has commanded it to ebb and flow with such reg- 
ularity ? A little more or a little less motion in the 
waters would derange all nature Who is it that con- 
trols this immense body, with such irresistible power. 
Who is it that always avoids the too much and the too 
little ? What unerring finger has marked the bounda- 
ries for the sea, that through countless ages it has 
respected, and has said to it, ' Here shall thy proud 
waves be stayed!' 

If we look up to the heavens, we perceive clouds 
flying as upon the wings of the wind ; bodies of water 
suspended over our heads, to temper the air and 
water the thirsty earth. If they were to fall all at 
once, they would overwhelm and destroy every thing 



A CONTENTED MIND. 77 

in the place where they fell. What hand suspends 
them in their reservoirs, and bids them fall drop by 
drop as from a watering-pot ! 

Fenelon. 



A CONTENTED MIND, 

My mind to me a kingdom is: 
Such perfect joy therein I find, 
As far exceeds all earthly bliss 
That God or Nature hath assigned: 
Though much I want, that most would have, 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

Content I live, this is my stay: 
I seek no more than may suffice: 
I press to bear no haughty sway; 
Look, what I lack my mind supplies. 
Lo ! thus I triumph like a king, 
Content with what my mind doth bring. 

Some have too much, yet still they crave, 

I little have, yet seek no more; 

They are but poor, though much they have, 

And I am rich with little store ; 

They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; 

They lack, I lend; thoy pine, I live. 

I joy in no one earthly bliss, 

I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw 

For care, I care not what it is; 

7# 



78 THE VISIBLE FIRMAMENT. 

I fear not fortune's fatal law: 
My mind is such as may not move 
For beauty bright, or force of love. 

I wish but what I have at will ; 
I wander not to seek for more; 
I like the plain, I climb no hill; 
In greatest storms I sit on shore, 
And laugh at them that toil in vain 
To get what must be lost again. 

I kiss not where I wish to kill: 
I feign not love where most I hate; 
I break no sleep to win my will ; 
I wait not at the mighty 's gate; 
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich; 
I feel no want, nor have too much. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease; 
My conscience clear my chief defence: 
I never seek by bribes to please. 
Nor by desert to give offence ; 
Thus do I live, thus will I die: 
Would all men did so well as I ! 



Lord Vaux, 



THE VISIBLE FIRMAMENT. 

If the sun, at the same distance it now is, were 
larger, it would light the whole world, but it would 
consume it with heat. If it were smaller, the earth 



THE VISIBLE FIRMAMENT. 79 

would be all ice, and could not be inhabited by men. 
What compass has been stretched from heaven to 
earth, and taken such measurements ? The changes 
of the sun make the variety of the seasons, which we 
find so delightful. 

The spring checks the cold winds, wakens the flow- 
ers, and gives the promise of fruits. The summer 
brings the riches of the harvest. The autumn displays 
the fruits that spring has promised. Winter, which is 
the night of the year, treasures up all its riches, only 
in order that the following spring may bring them forth 
with new beauty. Thus nature, so variously adorned, 
presents alternately her beautiful changes, that man 
may never cease to admire. 

Let us look up again at this immense concave above 
us, where sparkle the countless stars. If it be solid, 
who is the architect } Who is it that has fastened in 
it, at regular distances, such grand and luminous bod- 
ies? Who makes this vaulted sky to turn round us 
so regularly ? 

If, on the contrary, the heavens are only immense 
spaces, filled with fluid bodies, like the air that sur- 
rounds us, how is it that so many solid bodies float in 
it, without interfering one with another.^ After so 
many ages that men have been maJting astronomical 
observations, they have discovered no derangement 
in the heavens. Can a fluid body give such a con- 
stant and regular order to the substances that float on 
its bosom ? But what is this almost countless multi- 
tude of stars for ? God has sown them in the heav- 
ens, as a magnificent prince would adorn his garments 
with precious stones. 

Fenelon. 



PLEASURES OF THE RUSTIC. 



PLEASURES OF THE RUSTIC. 

The hinds how blest, who 're ne'er beguiled 
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn-wild! 

When morning's twilight-tinctured beam 
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, 
They rove abroad in ether blue, 
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew; 
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, 
That nodding shades a craggy dell. 

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear. 
Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear; 
On green untrodden banks they view 
The hyacinth's neglected hue: 
In their lone haunts and woodland rounds, 
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds; 
Each native charm their steps explore 
Of solitude's sequestered store. 
For them the moon, with cloudless ray, 
Mounts, to illume their homeward way ; 
Their weary spirits to relieve. 
The meadows incense breathe at eve. 
No riot mars the simple fare 
That o'er a glimm'ring hearth they share; 
But when the curfew's measured roar 
Duly, the dark'ning valleys o'er. 
Has echoed from the distant town. 
They wish no beds of cygnet down, 
No trophied canopies, to close 
Their drooping eyes in quick repose. 

Their little sons who spread the bloom 
Of health around the clay-built room. 
Or through the primrosed coppice stray, 



THE POLISH LADIES. 81 

Or gambol in the new-mown hay ; 

Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine. 

Or drive a-field the tardy kine ; 

Or hasten from the sultry hill 

To loiter at the shady rill; 

Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest 

To rob the raven's ancient nest. 

Their humble porch with honeyed flowers 
The curling woodbine's shade embowers: 
From the trim garden's thymy mound 
Their bees in busy swarms resound. 
Nor fell Disease, before his time. 
Hastes to consume life's golden prime: 
But when their temples long have wore 
The silver crown of tresses hoar; 
As studious still calm peace to keep, 
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep. T. Warton. 



THE POLISH LADIES. 

Who would not feel an aflTection for Poland, the 
Poles, and, above all, the Polish women ? Who would 
not admire the wit and courage of the men, and the 
grace and beauty of the women? The manners of the 
Polish ladies are more exquisitely fascinating than 
those of all others. To prefer another city to War- 
saw is impossible. There you find the most refined 
ton of Paris, allied with oriental manners; the good 
taste of Europe, and the magnificence of Asia united; 
the politeness of the most civilized society, with the 
plain, unaffected hospitality of barbarous nations. 
Who would not admire a people whose external ap- 



82 BREAKFAST. 

pearance is universally noble or prepossessing? and 
whose manners, though plain and unassuming, are 
polite and cordial? 

In the cities you meet with good breeding and 
urbanity every where, and in the country good natur- 
ed roughness prevails. The comprehension of the 
Poles is quick, their conversation light and agreeable, 
and their education has made them possessors of every 
talent. They have the gift of languages, are deeply 
read in general literature, eloquent and accomplish- 
ed. Their taste in every thing is highly cultiva- 
ted; they are admirers of the fine arts, passionately 
fond of state, private theatricals, and of their national 
dancing. Their dress is original; some of their cus- 
toms extraordinary; their style of living magnificent. 
They are good and open-hearted, and even grate- 
fully inclined. Journal of a JYobleman, 



BREAKFAST. 

A Dinner party, coffee, tea, 
Sandwich, or supper, all may be 
In their way pleasant. But to me, 
Not one of these deserves the praise 
That welcomer of new-born days, 
A breakfast, merits; ever giving 
Cheerful notice we are living. 
Another day refreshed by sleep. 
When its festival we keep. 
Now, although I would not slight 
Those kindly words we use, ^ Good night,' 
Yet parting words are words of sorrow. 



IRVING IN NEW YORK. 83 

And may not vie with sweet 'Good morrow I' 

With which again our friends we greet. 

When in the breakfast-room we meet; 

At the social table round 

Listening to the lively sound 

Of those notes which never tire, 

Of urn, or kettle on the fire. 

Sleepy Robert never hears 

Or urn, or kettle; he appears 

W^hen all have finished one by one 

Dropping ofi*, and breakfast done. 

Yet has he too his own pleasure. 

His breakfast hour 's his hour of leisure; 

And, left alone he reads or muses, 

Or else in idle mood he uses 

To sit and watch the vent'rous fly, 

Where the sugar's piled high, 

Clambering o'er the lumps so white. 

Rocky cliffs of sweet delight. Mrs. Leicester. 



IRVING IN NEW YORK. 

On the return of Vyashington Irving, from a long residence in Europe, to 
New York, the inhabitants of that city invited him, as a token of their 
respect, to a public dinner. The occasion was honored with the presence 
of many of our most distinguished citizens ; and was improved by the 
illustrious guest, in making the following address — 

Mr. President and Gentlemen — I find myself, 
after a long absence of seventeen years, surrounded 
by the friends of my youth — by those whom in my 
early days I was accustomed to look up to with ven- 
eration — by others, who though personally new to 
me, I recognise as the sons of the patriarchs of my 



84 IRVING IN NEW YORK. 

native city. The manner in which I have been receiv- 
ed by them, has rendered this the proudest, the happi- 
est moment of my life. Never, certainly, did a man 
return to his native place, after so long an absence, 
under happier auspices. 

On my side I see changes, it is true, but they are 
the changes of rapid improvement and growing pros- 
perity; even the countenances of my old associates 
and townsmen, have appeared to me but slightly 
affected by the lapse of years, though perhaps it was 
the glow of ancient friendship and heartfelt welcome 
beaming from them, that prevented me from seeing 
the ravages of time. As to my native city, from the 
time I approached the coast, I had indications of its 
growing greatness. We had scarce descried the land, 
when a thousand sails of all descriptions gleaming 
along the horizon, and all standing to or from one 
point, showed that we were in the neighborhood of a 
vast commercial emporium. As I sailed up our beau- 
tiful bay, with a heart swelling with old recollections 
and delightful associations, I was astonished to see its 
once wild features brightening with populous villages 
and noble piles, and a seeming city,=^ extending itself 
over heights I had left covered with green forests. 

But how shall I describe my emotions when our city 
rose to sight, seated in the midst of its watery domain, 
stretching away to a vast extent; when I beheld a 
glorious sunshine lighting up the spires and domes, 
some familiar to memory, others new and unknown, and 
beaming upon a forest of masts of every nation, ex- 
tending as far as the eye could reach? I have gazed 
with admiration upon many a fair city and stately har- 
bor, but my admiration was cold and ineffectual, for I 

* Brooklyn. 



THE HERMIT'S TALE. 85 

was a stranger, and had no property in the soil. Here, 
however, my heart throbbed with pride and joy as I 
admired — I had a birthright in the brilliant scene be- 
fore me — 

*This was my own, my native land.' 

It has been asked, ' Can I be content to live in this 
country?' Whoever asks that question must have but 
an inadequate idea of its blessings and delights. What 
sacrifice of enjoyments have I to reconcile myself to? 
I come from gloomier climes to one of brilliant sun- 
shine and inspiring purity. I come from countries low- 
ering with doubt and danger, where the rich man trem- 
bles, and the poor man frowns — where all repine at the 
present and dread the future. I come from these to a 
country where all is life and animation; where I hear 
on every side the sound of exultation; where every one 
speaks of the past with triumph, the present with de- 
lightjthe future with glowing and confident anticipation. 
Is this not a community in which one may rejoice to live ? 
Is this not a city by which one may be proud to be re- 
ceived as the son? Is this not a land in which one may 
be happy to fix his destiny, and ambition, if possible to 
found a name ? I am asked, how long I mean to remain 
here ? They know but little of my heart or my feelings 
who can ask me this question. I answer, as long as I live ! 



THE HERMIT'S TALE. 

Beneath a mountain's brow the most remote 
And inaccessible by shepherds trod. 
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, 
A hermit lived; a melancholy man, 
8 



86 THE HERMIT'S TALE. 

Who was the wonder of wand'ring swains. 
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, 
Did they report him; the cold earth his bed. 
Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms. 
I went to see him; and my heart was touched 
With reverence and with pity. Mild he spake, 
And entering on discourse, such stories told. 
As made me oft revisit his sad cell. 
For he had been a soldier in his youth; 
And fought in famous battles, when the peers 
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led 
Against the usurping Infidel, displayed 
The Cross of Christ, and won the Holy Land. 
Pleased with mv admiration, and the fire 
His speech struck from me, the old man would shake 
His years away, and act his young encounters; 
Then, having showed his wounds, he'd sit him down, 
And all the live-long day discourse of war. 
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf 
He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts; 
Described the motions, and explained the use 
Of the deep column, and the lengthened line; 
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm: 
For all that Saracen or Christian knew 
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known. 

Unhappy man! 
Returning homewards by Messina's port, 
Loaded with wealth and honors bravely won, 
A rude and boisterous captain of the sea 
Fastened a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought! 
The stranger fell; and with his dying breath 
Declared his name and lineage. Mighty God! 
The soldier cried, my brother! O my brother! 
They exchanged forgiveness: 



THE FOLLY OF PRIDE. 87 

And happy, in my mind, was he that died; 
For many deaths has the survivor suffered. 
In the wild desert on a rock he sits. 
Upon some nameless stream's untrodden banks, 
And ruminates all day his dreadful fate. 
At times, alas! nor in his perfect mind. 
Holds dialogues with his loved brother's ghost; 
And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch. 
To make sad orisons for him he slew. Home, 



THE FOLLY OF PRIDE. 

After all, take some quiet, sober moment of life, 
and add together the two ideas of pride, and of man; 
behold him, a creature of a span high, stalking 
through infinite space, in all the grandeur of little- 
ness. Perched on a little speck of the universe, 
every wind of heaven strikes into his blood the cold- 
ness of death; his soul fleets from his body, like mel- 
ody from the string; day and night, as dust on the 
wheel, he is rolled along the heavens, through a laby- 
rinth of worlds, and all the systems, and creations of 
God are flaming above, and beneath. 

Is this a creature to revel in his greatness? Is this 
a creature to make to himself a crown of glory; to 
deny his own flesh and blood; and to mock at his fel- 
low, sprung from that dust, to which they both will 
soon return? Does the proud man not err ? Does he 
not suffer? Does he not die? When he reasons, is 
he never stopped by difficulties ? When he acts, is he 
never tempted by pleasures? When he lives, is he 
free from pain? When he dies, can he escape from 



88 YOUTH AND MANHOOD. 

the common grave? Pride is not the heritage of 
man; humiHty should dwell with frailty, and atone for 
ignorance, error, and imperfection. 

Sidney Smith. 



YOUTH AND MANHOOD. 

Our youth bears some proportion to our more ad- 
vanced life, as this world does to the next. In this 
life we must form and cultivate those habits of virtue, 
which will qualify us for a better state. If we neglect 
them here, and contract habits of an opposite kind, 
instead of gaining that exalted state, which is prom- 
ised to our improvement, we shall of course sink into 
that state, which is adapted to the habits we have 
formed. 

Exactly thus is youth introductory to manhood; to 
which it is, properly speaking, a state of preparation. 
During this season, we must qualify ourselves for the 
parts we are to act hereafter. In manhood we bear 
the fruit, which has in youth been planted. If we 
have sauntered away our youth, we must expect to 
be ignorant men. If indolence and inattention have 
taken an early possession of us, they will probably 
increase as we advance in life; and make us a burden 
to ourselves, and useless to society. If again we suf- 
fer ourselves to be misled by vicious inclinations, they 
will daily get new strength, and end in dissolute lives. 
But if we cultivate our minds in youth, attain habits of 
attention and industry, of virtue and sobriety, we shall 
find ourselves well prep«ared to act our future parts in 
life ; and what, above all things, ought to be our care 



THE PLANETARY SYSTEM. 89 

by gaming this command over ourselves, we shall be 
more able, as we get forward in the world, to resist 
every new temptation, as soon as it appears. 



THE PLANETARY SYSTEM, 

Fair star of Eve, thy lucid ray 
Directs my thoughts to realms on high; 
Great is the theme though weak the lay, 
For my heart whispers God is nigh. 

The Sun, vicegerent of his power. 
Shall rend the veil of parting night. 
Salute the spheres, at early hour, 
And pour a flood of life and light. 

Seven circling planets I behold. 
Their different orbits all describe; 
Copernicus these wonders told, 
And bade the laws of truth revive. 

Mercury and Venus first appear. 
Nearest the dazzling source of day; 
Three months compose his hasty year, 
In seven she treads the heavenly way. 

Next, Earth completes her yearly course; 
The Moon as satellite attends; 
Attraction is the hidden force. 
On which creation's law depends. 

Then Mars is seen of fiery hue; 

Jupiter's orb we next descry; 
3# 



THE PLANETARY SYSTEM. 

His atmospheric belts we view. 

And four bright moons attract the eye. 

Mars, soon his revolution makes. 

In twice twelve months the sun surrounds; 

Jupiter, greater limits takes. 

And twelve long years declare his bounds. 

With ring of light, see Saturn slow, 
Pursue his path in endless space; 
By seven pale moons his course we know, 
And thirty years that round shall trace. 

The Georgium Sidus next appears. 
By his amazing distance known; 
The lapse of more than eighty years, 
In his account makes one alone. 

Six moons are his, by Herschel shown, 
Herschel, of modern times the boast; » 

Discovery here is all his own. 
Another planetary host! 

And lo! by astronomic scan, 
Three stranger planets track the skies, ^ 
Part of that high majestic plan. 
Whence those successive worlds arise. 

Next Mars, Piazza's orb is seen. 

Four years six months, complete his round; 

Science shall renovated beam. 

And gild Palermo's favoured ground. 

Daughters of telescopic ray, 
Pallas and Juno, smaller spheres, 



DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS. 91 

Are seen near Jove's imperial way, 
Tracing the heavens in destined years. 

Comets and fixed stars I see. 

With native lustre ever shine; 

How great! how good! how dreadful! He 

In whom life, light, and truth combine. 

Oh! may I better know his will. 

And more implicitly obey; 

Be God my friend, my father still, 

From finite — to eternal day. Mangnall. 



DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS.* 

The vices and follies of men should excite compassion rather than ridicule. 

Democritus. I find it impossible to reconcile my- 
self to a melancholy philosophy. 

Heraclitus. And I am equally unable to approve 
of that vain philosophy, which teaches men to despise 
and ridicule one another. To a wise and feeling 
mind, the world appears in a wretched and painful 
light. 

Dem. Thou art too much affected with the state of 
things; and this is a source of misery to thee. 

Her. And I think thou art too little moved by it. 
Thy mirth and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, rather 
than the philosopher. Does it not excite thy compas- 
sion, to see mankind so frail, so blindj so far departed 
from the rules of virtue ? 

* Democritus and Heraclitus were two ancient philosophers j the formsr 
of whom laughed, and the latter wept, at the errors and follies of mankind. 



9£ DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS. 

Dem, I am excited to laughter, when I see so 
much impertinence and folly. 

Her, And yet, after all, they who are the objects 
of thy ridicule, include, not only mankind in general, 
but the persons with whom thou livest, thy friends, thy 
family, nay, even thyself. 

Dem. I care very little for all the silly persons I 
meet with; and think I am justifiable in diverting 
myself with their folly. 

Her. If they are weak and foolish, it marks nei- 
ther wisdom nor humanity, to insult rather than pity 
them. But is it certain, thou art not as extravagant 
as they are ? 

Hem, I presume that I am not; since in every 
point, my sentiments are the very reverse of theirs. 

Her. There are follies of different kinds. By con- 
stantly amusing thyself with the errors and misconduct 
of others, thou mayst render thyself equally ridiculous 
and culpable. 

Dem. Thou art at liberty to indulge such senti- 
ments; and to weep over me too, if thou hast any 
tears to spare. For my part, I cannot refrain from 
pleasing myself with the levities and ill conduct of the 
world about me. Are not all men foolish or irregular 
in their lives ? 

Her, Alas! there is but too much reason to believe 
they are so: and on this ground, I pity and deplore 
their condition. We agree in this point, that men do 
not conduct themselves according to reasonable and 
just principles; but I, who do not suffer myself to act 
as they do, must yet regard the dictates of my under- 
standing and feelings, which compel me to love them; 
and that love fills me with compassion for their mis- 
lakes and irregularities. Canst thou condemn me for 



DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS. 93 

pitying my own species, my brethren, persons born 
in the same condition of life, and destined to the same 
hopes and privileges? If thou shouldst enter a hospital, 
where sick and wounded persons reside, would their 
wounds and distresses excite thy mirth ? And yet, the 
evils of the body bear no comparison with those of the 
mind. Thou wouldst certainly blush at thy barbarity, 
if thou hadst been so unfeeling, as to laugh at, or des- 
pise a poor miserable being who had lost one of his 
legs: and yet thou art so destitute of humanity, as to 
ridicule those, who appear to be deprived of the noble 
powers of the understanding, by the little regard which 
they pay to its dictates. 

Dem. He who has lost a leg is to be pitied, be- 
cause the loss is not to be imputed to himself: but he 
who rejects the dictates of reason and conscience, 
voluntarily deprives himself of their aid. The loss 
originates in his own folly. 

He7\ Ah! so much the more is he to be pitied! A 
furious maniac who should pluck out his own eyes, 
would deserve more compassion than an ordinary blind 
man. 

Dem. Come, let us accommodate the business. 
There is something to be said on each side of the 
question. There is every where reason for laughing, 
and reason for weeping. The world is ridiculous, and 
I laugh at it; it is deplorable, and thou lamentest over 
it. Every person views it in his own way, and ac- 
cording to his own temper. One point is unquestion- 
able, that mankind are preposterous; to think right, 
and to act well, we must think and act differently from 
them. To submit to the authority, and follow the ex- 
example of the greater part of men, would render us 
foolish and miserable. 



94 AMBITION FALSE AND TRUE. 

Her. All this is, indeed, true; but then, thou hast 
no real love or feeling for thy species. The calami- 
ties of mankind excite thy mirth ; and this proves that 
thou hast no regard for men, nor any true respect for 
the virtues which they have unhappily abandoned. 



AMBITION FALSE AND TRUE. 

I w^ouLD not wear the warrior's wreath; 

I would not court his crown; 
For love and virtue sink beneath 

His dark and vengeful frown. 

I would not seek my fame to build 

On glory's dizzy height; 
Her temple is with orphans filled; 

Blood soils her sceptre bright. 

I would not wear the diadem, 

By folly prized so dear; 
For want and wo have bought eacli gem 

And every pearl 's a tear. 

I would not heap the golden chest, 

That sordid spirits crave; 
For every grain, (by penury curst,) 

Is gathered from the grave. 

No; let my wreath unsullied be; 

My fame be virtuous youth ; 
My wealth be kindness, charity; 

My diadem be truth. 



MATERNAL AFFECTION. 95 



MATERNAL AFFECTION. 

Woman's charms are certainly many and powerful. 
The expanding rose, just bursting into beauty, has an 
irresistible bewitchingness; — the blooming bride, led 
triumphantly to the hymenial altar, awakens admira- 
tion and interest, and the blush of her cheek fills with 
delight; — but the charm of maternity is more sublime 
than all these. 

Heaven has imprinted in the mother's face some- 
thing beyond this world, something which claims kind- 
red with the skies, — the angelic smile, the tender look, 
the waking,- watchful eye, which keeps its fond vigil 
over her slumbering babe. 

These are objects which neither the pencil nor the 
chisel can touch, which poetry fails to exalt, which 
the most eloquent tongue iti vain would eulogize, and 
on which all description becomes ineffective. In the 
heart of man lies this lovely picture; it lives in his 
sympathies ; it reigns in his affections ; his eye looks 
around in vain for such another object on earth. 

Maternity, extatic sound ! so twined round our 
hearts, that they must cease to throb ere we forget it! 
'tis our first love; 'tis part of religion. Nature has 
set the mother upon such a pinnacle, that our infant 
eyes and arms are first uplifed to it; we cling to it in 
manhood; we almost worship it in old age. He who 
can enter an apartment, and behold the tender babe 
feeding on its mother's beauty — nourished by the tide 
of life which flows through her generous veins, with- 
out a panting bosom and a grateful eye, is no man, 
but a monster. 



96 THE DYING BLIND BOY. 



THE DYING BLIND BOY TO HIS MOTHER. 

Mother, I am dying now; 

Death's cold damps are on my brow. 

Leave me not; each pang grows stronger, 

Patient watch a little longer. 

Sweet it is your voice to hear, 

Though dull and heavy grows mine ear; 

Wait, and take my last adieu. 

Never mother loved like you. 

Life to me was sweet and dear, 
While I lived the tales to hear, 
Told by you on wintry hearth, 
All to make your blind boy mirth. 
And I loved my voice to join 
In chorus of those hymns divine. 
By which you fondly taught your boy 
To look to heaven with peace and joy. 

Sun or moon I could not see, 
But love measured time for me. 
When your kiss my slumber broke, 
Then I knew the morn had woke ; 
And when came the hour to pray. 
Then I knew 't was close of day. 
When I heard the loud winds blow, 
And I felt the warm fire glow. 
Then I knew 't was winter wild, 
And kept at home, your helpless child. 
When the air grew mild and soft, 
And the gay lark sang aloft. 
And I heard the streamlet flowing, 



THE DYING BLIND BOY. <Wf' 

And I smelled the wild flower blowing, 
And the bee did round me hum, 
Then I knew the spring was come. 

Forth I wandered with delight, 
And I knew when days were bright. 
When I climed the green hill side, 
Fancy traced the prospect wide; 
And 't was pleasant when I pressed 
The warm and downy turf, to rest. 

Now I never more shall roam 

The many paths around my -home ; 

And you oft will look in vain. 

Nor hail your wanderer back again; 

Never more on tiptoe creep. 

Where he lay as if asleep ; 

Or, with low and plaintive moan. 

Humming to himself alone, 

On a bed of wild flowers stretched. 

Starting, when a kiss you snatched. 

Till nature whispered 't was my mother, 

And affection gave another. 

But 't is sweeter thus to die 
With my tender mother by. 
Than to be in life alone. 
When she and every friend were gone; 
Mourn not o'er me, broken hearted. 
Not for long shall we be parted; 
Soon in vales which ever bloom, 
Which unfading flowers perfume. 
In realms of life, and light, and joy, 
You will meet your poor blind boy. 
9 



98 FEMALE CHARACTER. 



THE FEMALE CHARACTER. 

If we glance at those domestic relations which 
woman sustains, she appears in attitudes highly inter- 
esting. 

Is she a daughter 7 She has a strong hold on the 
parental bosom. By her kind, discreet, obedient, du- 
tiful conduct, she contributes greatly to the happiness 
of those who tenderly love her and who are her natural 
guardians and guides. Or by the opposite conduct 
she disappoints their hopes, and pierces their hearts 
with sorrow. Just in proportion to the superior strength 
and tenderness of parental affection, is the happiness 
or misery resulting from the kind or unkind deport- 
ment of a daughter. 

Is she a sister"? If intelligent and virtuous, she 
sheds the most kindly influence on the little circle of 
kindred spirits in which she daily moves. 

Is she a wifel The relation is most endearing, and 
its duties most important. Taken originally from a 
place near man's heart, she is ever to be his most 
kind, affectionate, and faithful partner. To contribute 
to his happiness is always to be her first earthly care. 
It is hers, not merely to amuse his leisure hours, but 
to be his intelligent companion, friend, and counsel- 
lor; his second self; his constant and substantial 
helper, both as to the concerns of this life, and as to 
his eternal interests. She is to do him good all the 
days of her life. And by so doing to dwell in the 
vicinity of his heart, till separated by death. 

Is she a mother? It is hers in no small degree to 
form the character of the next generation. Constantly 
with her children, having the chief care of them in 



NIGHT. 99 

infancy and early childhood, — the most susceptible, the 
forming period of life, — to her, in an important sense, 
are committed the character and the destiny of indi- 
viduals and nations. Many of the most distinguished 
and of the most excellent men this or any country has 
produced, were indebted under God for their weight 
of character, chiefly to the exertions of their mothers 
during their early childhood. 

Thus viewed in her domestic relations, woman 
appears in a highly interesting light. So she does 
when seen in other stations. See her taking an active 
part in various benevolent associations. There she 
exerts an influence in the cause of humanity and of 
religion, the most powerful and beneficial. Like an 
angel of mercy on the wing, she performs her part with 
promptitude and compassion. American Spectator, 



NIGHT. 

Night is the time for rest; 

How sweet, when labors close, 
To gather round our aching breast 

The curtain of repose! 
Stretch the tired limb, and lay the head 
Upon our own delightful bed ! 

Night is the time for dreams, 

The gay romance of life. 
When truth that is, and truth that seems, 

Blend in fantastic strife; 
Ah! visions less beguiling far, 
Than waking dreams by daylight are. 



100 ON DUELLING. 

Night is the time to weep; 

To wet with unseen tears 
Those graves of memory, where sleep 

The joys of other years; 
Hopes, that were angels in their birth, 
But perished young, like things of earth. 

Night is the time to muse ; 

Then from the eye the soul 
Takes flight, and with expanding views 

Beyond the starry pole 
Descries, athwart the abyss of night, 
The dawn of uncreated light. 

Night is the time to pray: 

Our Saviour oft withdrew 
To desert mountains far away, 

So will his followers do; 
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
And hold communion there with God. 

Montgomery, 



ON DUELLING. 

How is the name of honor abused! Can honor be 
the savage resolution, the brutal fierceness of a re- 
vengeful spirit ? True honor is manifested in a steady, 
uniform train of actions, attended by justice and di- 
rected by prudence. Is this the conduct of the duel- 
list ? will justice support him in robbing the community 
of an able and useful member, and in depriving the 
poor of a benefactor ? will it support him in preparing 



LA FAYETTE IN AMERICA. IQl 

affliction for the widow's heart? in filling the orphan's 
eyes with tears? 

Will justice acquit him for enlarging the punishment 
beyond the offence ? will it permit him, for, perhaps, 
a rash word that may admit of an apology, an unad- 
vised action that may be retrieved, or an injury that 
may be compensated, to cut off a man before his days 
be half numbered, and for a temporary fault inflict an 
endless punishment? On the other hand, wdll pru- 
dence bear him out in risking an infamous death if he 
succeeds in the duel ? but if he falls, will it plead his 
pardon at a more awful tribunal, for rushing into the 
presence of an offended God? 

Duelling seems to be an unnatural graft upon gen- 
uine courage, and the growth of a barbarous age. 
The polite nations of Greece and Rome knew nothing 
of it; they reserved their bravery for the enemies of 
their country, and then were prodigal of their blood. 
These brave people set honor up as a guardian genius 
of the public, to humanize their passions, to preserve 
their truth unblemished, and to teach them to value 
life only as useful to their country. The modern 
heroes dress it up like one of the demons of super- 
stition, covered with blood, and delighting in human 
sacrifice. Home, 



LA FAYETTE'S SECOND VISIT TO AMERICA. 

After nearly fifly years, that patriot has come 
again. Can mortal tongue tell, can mortal heart feel, 
the sublimity of that coming ? Exulting millions re- 

9^ 



102 LA FAYETTE IN AMERICA. 

joice in it, and their loud, long, transporting shout, 
like the mingling of many winds, rolls on, undying, to 
freedom's farthest mountains. A congregated nation 
comes round him. Old men bless him, and children 
reverence him. The lovely come out to look upon 
him, the learned deck their halls to greet him, the 
rulers of the land rise up to do him homage. 

How his full heart labors! He views the rusting 
trophies of departed days, he treads the high places 
where his brethren moulder, he bends before the tomb 
of his ' Father:' — his words are tears: the speech of 
sad remembrance. But he looks around upon the 
ransomed land, and a joyous race; he beholds the 
blessings those trophies secured, for which those 
brethren died, for which that 'Father' lived; and 
again his words are tears; the eloquence of gratitude 
and joy. 

Spread forth creation like a map; bid earth's dead 
multitude revive; and, of all the pageant splendors 
that ever glittered to the sun, when looked his burning 
eye on a sight like this? Of all the myriads that have 
come and gone, what cherished minion ever ruled an 
hour like this? Many have struck the redeeming 
blow for their own freedom, but who, like this man, 
has bared his bosom in the cause of strangers? 

Others have lived in the love of their own people, 
but who, like this man, has drank his sweetest cup of 
welcome with another? Matchless chief! of glory's 
immortal tablets, there is one for him, for him alone ! 
Oblivion shall never shroud its splendor; the ever- 
lasting flame of liberty shall guard it, that the genera- 
tions of men may repeat the name recorded there, the 
beloved name of La Fayette. Sprague, 



MY BIRTHDAY. 103 



MY BIRTHDAY. 



My birthday ! what a different sound 
That word had in my youthful ears! 
And how each time the day comes round, 
Less and less white its mark appears! 
When first our scanty years are told. 
It seems like pastime to grow old. 
And as youth counts the shining links, 
That time around him binds so fast, 
Pleased with the task, he little thinks, 
How hard that chain will press at last. 
Vain was the man, and false as vain, 
Who said, ^ were he ordained to run 
His long career of life again. 
He would do all that he had done.' 
Ah! 'tis not thus the voice that dwells 
In sober birthdays speaks to me; 
Far otherwise ; of time it tells, 
Lavished unwisely, carelessly. 
Of counsel mocked, of talents made 
Haply for high and pure designs. 
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid 
Upon unholy, earthly shrines; 
Of nursing many a wrong desire; 
Of wandering after love too far; 
And taking every meteor fire. 
That crossed my pathway, for his star. 
All that it tells ; and could I trace 
The imperfect picture o'er again. 
With power to add, retouch, efface. 
The lights and shades, the joy and pain, 
How little of the past would stay ! 



104 LEARNING AND USEFULNESS. 

How quickly all should melt away! 
All — but the freedom of the mind, 
Which hath been more than wealth to me, 
Those friendships in my boyhood twined, 
And kept till now, unchangingly. Moore, 



LEARNING AND USEFULNESS. 

Howard. Life is much like a fiddle: every man 
plays such a tune as suits him. 

Lester, The more like a fiddle, the better I like it. 
Any thing that makes a merry noise suits me; and the 
man that does not set his hours to music, has a dull 
time on't. 

Hoiv. But, Lester, are there no serious duties in 
life ? Ought we not to improve our minds, and to pre- 
pare for usefulness? 

Lest, Why, in the present day, a man's preparing 
himself for usefulness, is like carrying coals to New- 
castle. Our country is full of useful men; ten, at 
least, to where one is wanted, and all of them ten 
times as ready to serve the public, as the public is to 
be served. If every man should go to Congress that 's 
fit for it, the Federal city would hardy hold them. 

Hoiv, You mean, if all who think themselves fit 
for it. 

Lest. No; I mean as I said. 

How. Then what do you think fits a man for Con- 
gress ? 

Lest. Why he must be flippant and bold. 

How. What good will that do him, if he is without 
knowledge? 



LEARNING AND USEFULNESS. iQa 

Lest. 01 he must have knowledge to be sure. 

Hoic. Well, must he not be a man in whom the 
people can trust? 3Iust he not understand politics? 
and must he not be able and wilKng to serve his 
country ? 

Lest. I agree to all that. 

How. Then you suppose that the Federal city could 
hardly hold all our men w^io unite eloquence with con- 
fidence, knowledge with integrity, and policy with 
patriotism. I fear thdt a counting-house could give 
them full accommodation. 

Lest. I don't go so deep into these matters: but 
this is certain, that when the election comes, more 
than enough are willing to go. 

How. That, my friend, only proves that more than 
enough are ignorant of themselves: but are there no 
other ways of serving the public ? 

Lest. Yes; one may preach, if he will do it for 
little or nothing. He may practice law, if he can get 
any body to employ him; or he maybe a doctor or an 
instructer; but I tell you the country is crowded with 
learned men becrgincr business. 

How. Then you intend to prepare yourself for the 
ignorant herd, so that you may not be crowded. 

Lest. I have serious thoughts of it. You may 
take your own way, but I'll never wear out a fine pair 
of eyes in preparing myself for usefulness, till this 
same public will give me a bond to employ me when 
I am ready to serve them. 'Till such a bond is sign- 
ed, sealed, and delivered, I shall set my hours to the 
tune of 'Jack's alive.' To-day's the ship I sail in, 
and that will carry the flag, in spite of the combined 
powers of yesterdays and to-morrows. 

How. Well, Lester, you can take your choice. I 



106 SACRED LYRIC. 

shall set my hours to a more serious tune. I ask no 
bond of the public. If my mind is well furnished with 
knowledge, and that same generous public, which 
has so uniformly called to her service the discerning, 
should refuse my services, still I shall possess a trea- 
sure, which, after a few years of dissipation, you 
would give the world to purchase, the recollection 

OF TIME WELL SPENT. 



SACRED LYRIC. 

Where can I go from Thee, 

All present Deity? 
Nature, and time, and thought, thine impress bear; 

Through earth, or sea, or sky, 

Though far away I fly, 
I turn, and find thee present with me there. 

The perfume of the rose, 

And every flower that blows. 
All mark thy love, in clusters of the vale. 

The corn that crowns the fields, 

The fruits the garden yields, 
Proclaim the bounties that can never fail. 

The vapor and the cloud. 

The thunder bursting loud, 
Speak of thy majesty in words of flame; 

The ocean as it roars. 

Lashing the rocks and shores. 
Declares from what a mighty hand it came. 



IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 107 

From thee I cannot fly ; 

Thine all observing eye 
Marks the minutest atom of thy reign; 

How far soe'er I go. 

Thou all my path wouldst know. 
And bring the wanderer to this earth again. 

But why should I depart? 

'Tis safety, where thou art; 
And could one spot thy being hold, 

I, poor, and vain, and weak, 

That sacred spot would seek, 
And dwell within the shelter of thy fold. 



IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL. 

Among various excellent arguments for the immor- 
tality of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpet- 
ual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a 
possibility of ever arriving at it. 

How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the 
soul, which is capable of such immense perfections and 
of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall 
fall away into nothing almost as soon as it is created? 
Are such abilities made for no purpose? A brute 
arrives at a point of perfection that he ban never pass: 
in a few years he has ^11 the endowments he is capa- 
ble of; and, were he to live ten thousand more, would 
be the same thing he is at present. 

Man does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver 
it down to others. This is not surprising to consider 
in animals, which are formed for our use, and can fin- 



108 THE BALANCE OF HAPPINESS. 

ish their business in a short life. The silk-worm, after 
having spun her task, lays her eggs, and dies. But a 
man can never have taken in his full measure of know- 
ledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establish 
his soul in virtue, and come up to the perfection of his 
nature, before he is hurried off the stage. 

Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious 
creatures for so mean a purpose? Can he delight in 
the production of such abortive intelligences, such 
short-lived reasonable beings ? Would he give us tal- 
ents that are not to be exerted.^ capacities that are 
never to be gratified? 

How can we find that wisdom, which shines through 
all his works in the formation of man, without looking 
on this world as only a nursery for the next, and be- 
lieving that the several generations of rational crea- 
tures, which rise up and disappear in such quick suc- 
cessions, are only to receive their first rudiments of 
existence here, and afterwards to be transplanted into 
a more friendly climate, where they may spread and 
flourish to all eternity? Addison, 



THE BALANCE OF HAPPINESS, 

An extensive contemplation of human aflTairs, will 
lead us to this conclusion, that among the different 
conditions and ranks of men, the balance of happiness 
is preserved, in a great measure, equal; and that the 
high and the low, the rich and the poor, approach, in 
point of real enjoyment, much nearer to each other, 
than is commonly imagined. 

In the lot of man, mutual compensations, both of 



THE MORNING MIST. 109 

pleasure and of pain, universally take place. Provi- 
dence never intended, that any state here should be 
either completely happy, or entirely miserable. If the 
feelings of pleasure are more numerous, and more 
lively, in the higher departments of life, such also are 
those of pain. If greatness flatters our vanity, it 
multiplies our dangers. If opulence increases our 
gratifications, it increases, in the same proportion, our 
desires and demands. If the poor are confined to a 
more narrow circle, yet within that circle lie most of 
those natural satisfactions, which, after all the refine- 
ments of art, are found to be the most genuine and 
true. 

In a state, therefore, where there is neither so much 
to be coveted on the one hand, nor to be dreaded on 
the other, as at first appears, how submissive ought 
we to be to the disposal of Providence! How tem- 
perate in our desires and pursuits! How much more 
attentive to preserve our virtue, and to improve our 
minds, than to gain the doubtful and equivocal advan- 
tages of worldly prosperity! 



THE MORNING MIST, 

Look, William, how the morning mists 

Have covered all the scene, 
Nor house nor hill canst thou behold, 

Gray wood, or meadow green. 

The distant spire across the vale 

The floating vapors shroud, 
Scarce are the neighboring poplars seen, 

Pale shadowed in the cloud. 
10 



no FLATTERY REPROVED. 

But seest thou, William, where the mists 

Sweep o'er the southern sky, 
The dim effulgence of the sun 

That lights them as they fly ? 

Soon shall that glorious orb of day 

In all his strength arise. 
And roll along his azure way. 

Through clear and cloudless skies. 

Then shall we see across the vale 

The village spire so white. 
And the gay wood and meadow green 

Shall live again in light. 

So, William, from the moral world 

The clouds shall pass away; 
The light that struggles through them now 

Shall beam eternal day. Southey. 



FLATTERY REPROVED. 

Canute, Is it true, my friends, as you have often 
told me, that I am the greatest of monarchs? 

Offa. It is true, my liege; you are the most pow- 
erful of all kings. 

Oswald. We are all your slaves; we kiss the dust 
of your feet. 

Of, Not only we, but even the elements are your 
slaves. The land obeys you from shore to shore; and 
the sea obeys you. 

Can. Does the sea, with its loud boisterous waves. 



.FLATTERY REPROVED. HI 

obey me? Will that terrible element be still at my 
bidding ? 

Of. Yes, the sea is yours; it was made to bear 
your ships upon its bosom, and to pour the treasures 
of the world at your royal feet. It is boisterous to 
your enemies, but it knows you to be its sovereign. 

Can. Is not the tide coming up ? 

Os. Yes, my liege; you may perceive the swell 
already. 

Can. Bring me a chair then ; set it here upon the 
sands. 

Of. Where the tide is coming up, my gracious lord? 

Can. Yes, set it just here. 

Os. (Aside)- — I wonder what he is going to do. 

Of (Aside) — Surely he is not such a fool as to 
believe us! 

Can. O mighty ocean! thou art my subject; my 
courtiers tell me so; and it is thy duty to obey me. 
Thus, then, I stretch my sceptre over thee, and com- 
mand thee to retire. Roll back thy swelling waves, 
nor let them presume to wet the feet of me, thy royal 
master. 

Os. (Aside) — I believe the sea will pay very little 
regard to his royal commands. 

Of. See how fast the tide rises! 

Os. The next wave will come up to the chair. It 
is folly to stay, we shall be covered with salt water. 

Can. Well, does the sea obey my commands ? If 
it be my subject, it is a very rebellious subject. See 
how it swells, and dashes the angry foam and salt 
spray over my sacred person! Vile sycophants! did 
you think I was the dupe of your base lies? that I 
believed your abject flatteries? Know, there is but 
one Being whom the sea will obey. He is sovereign 



112 THE FUGITIVE. ♦ 

of heaven and earth, King of kings, and Lord of lords. 
It is only He who can say to the ocean, ' thus far 
shalt thou go, but no farther, and here shall thy proud 
waves be stayed.' A king is but a man: and a man is 
but a worm. Shall a worm assume the power of the 
great God, and think the elements will obey him? 
May kings learn to be humble from my example, and 
courtiers learn truth from your disgrace. 



THE FUGITIVE, 

Oft have I seen yon solitary man 
Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow 
Sits melancholy, marked with decent pride, 
As it would fly the busy, taunting world. 
And feed upon reflection. Sometimes, near 
The foot of an old tree, he takes his seat, 
And with the page of legendary lore 
Cheats the dull hour, while evening's sober eye 
Looks tearful as it closes. 

He is young. 
And yet the stamp of thought so tempers youth 
That all its fires are faded. What is he? 
And why, when morning sails upon the breeze, 
Fanning the blue hill's summit, does he stay 
Loitering and sullen, like a truant boy. 
Beside the woodland glen; or stretched along 
On the green slope, watch his slow-wasting form 
Reflected, trembling, on the river's breast? 

His garb is coarse and threadbare, and his cheek 
Is prematurely faded. The check'd tear, 
Dimming his dark eye's lustre, seems to say, 



THE FUGITIVE. 113 

^ This world is now to me a barren waste, 
A desert full of weeds and wounding thorns, 
And I am weary: for my journey here 
Has been, though short, but cheerless.' Is it so? 
Poor traveller! Oh tell me, tell me all — 
For I, like thee, am but a fugitive. 
An alien from delight, in this dark scene. 
And now I mark thy features, I behold 
The cause of thy complaining. Thou art here 
A persecuted exile! one, whose soul 
Unbowed by guilt, demands no patronage 
From blunted feeling, or the frozen hand 
Of gilded ostentation. Thou, poor priest! 
Art here, a stranger, from thy kindred torn — 
Thy kindred massacred! thy quiet home, 
The rural palace of some village scant, 
Sheltered by vineyards, skirted by fair meads, 
And by the music of a shallow rill 
Made ever cheerful, now thou hast exchanged 
For stranger woods and valleys. 

What of that! 
Here, or on torrid deserts; o'er the world 
Of trackless waves, or on the frozen cliffs 
Of black Siberia, thou art not alone! 
For there, on each, on all, the Deity 
Is thy companion still! Then, exiled man! 
Be cheerful as the lark that o'er yon hill, 
In Nature's language, wild, yet musical. 
Hails the Creator! nor thus sullenly 
Repine, that, through the day, the sunny beam 
Of lustrous fortune gilds the palace roof. 
While thy short path, in this wild labyrinth, 
Is lost in transient shadow. 

Who, that lives, 
10* 



114 IMAGINATION AND REASON. 

Hath not his portion of calamity ? 
Who, that feels, can boast a tranquil bosom? 
The fever throbbing in the tyrant's veins, 
In quick, strong language, tells the daring wretch 
That he is mortal, like the poorest slave 
Who wears his chain, yet healthfully suspires. 
The sweetest rose will wither, while the storm 
Passes the mountain thistle. The bold bird, 
Whose strong eye braves the ever-burning orb, 
Falls like the summer fly, and has at most, 
But his allotted sojourn. Exiled man! 
Be cheerful ! thou art not a fugitive ! 
All are thy kindred — all thy brothers, here — 
The hoping — trembling creatures — of one God! 

Mrs, Robinson. 



IMAGINATION AND REASON. 

The soul has powers of imagination, which multiply 
the enjoyments of man; and, when properly directed, 
amend and enoble his character, by purifying the 
grosser materials of which it is composed. What a 
charm does it add to the scenery of nature ! How su- 
perior to that which is perceived through the same 
medium of the senses by the animal creation! 

The eagle, it is true, may gaze with pleasure on 
that beetling cliff, for it is the abode of its young ; the 
fawn may bound with delight through yonder grove, 
and enjoy its verdant foliage and its cooling shades; 
the mute inhabitants of the lake below may sport 
amidst its waters, and admire the sparkling of the 
wave as the sunbeam enters the transparent element ; 



A CURE FOR HARD TIMES. 115 

but to man, imagination gives the power of admiring 
them all, and of deriving from the scene a far more 
exalted and more exquisite enjoyment. 

But reason is a faculty of the soul still more excel- 
lent. Do you ask for proofs of its excellence ? Be- 
hold them in the various institutions of society; in 
that social compact which it establishes to preserve 
our race from a state worse than brutal barbarism; in 
the wholesome restraints imposed by government for 
the general good; in that civil liberty which is con- 
genial to man as a reasonable being, and is his only 
refuge from tyranny and violence. Mark how it ap- 
propriates to their most useful ends the various agents 
and substances in nature; how it divests even the 
lightning of its power to harm, and subdues the ele- 
ments to the convenience of man. Follow it as it ex- 
patiates through the fields of physical research; as it 
traces the appearances of nature to their sources, and 
brings them all to light; from the obvious cause of the 
simplest phenomenon, to that mysterious principle 
which keeps our planet in its orbit, and preserves the 
wondrous harmony of the universe of God. 

Griffin, 



A CURE FOR HARD TIMES. 

We are too fond of showing out in our families ; and 
in this way our expenses far exceed our incomes. Our 
daughters must be dressed off in their silks and crapes, 
instead of their linsey-woolsey. Our young folks are 
too proud to be seen in a coarse dress, and their ex- 
travagance is bringing ruin on our families. When 



116 A CURE FOR HARD TIMES. 

you can induce your sons to prefer young women for 
their real worth, rather than for their show; when you 
can get them to choose a wife, who can make a good 
loaf of bread, and a good pound of butter, in prefer- 
ence to a girl, who does nothing but dance about in 
her silks and her laces; then, gentlemen, you may 
expect to see a change for the better. We must get 
back to the good old simplicity of former times, if we 
expect to see more prosperous days. The time was, 
even since memory, when a simple note was good for 
any amount of money, but now bonds and mortgages 
are thought almost no security ; and this is owing to 
the want of confidence. 

And what has caused this want of confidence.^ Why, 
it is occasioned by the extravagant manner of living; 
by your families going in debt beyond your ability to 
pay. Examine this matter, gentlemen, and you will 
find this to be the real cause. Teach your sons to be 
too proud to ride a hackney, which their father cannot 
pay for. Let them be above being seen sporting in a 
gig or a carriage, which their father is in debt for. 
Let them have this sort of independent pride, and I 
venture to say that you w^ill soon perceive a reforma- 
tion. But, until the change commences in this way 
in our families; until we begin the work ourselves, it 
is in vain to expect better times. 

Now, gentlemen, if you think as I do on this sub- 
ject, there is a way of showing that you do think so, 
and but oneway; when you return to your homes, 
have independence enough to put these principles in 
practice; and I am sure you will not be disappointed. 

Judge Ross to the Grand Jury, 



THE ORPHAN BOY. m 



THE ORPHAN BOY. 

Alas ! I am an orphan boy, 

With nought on earth to cheer my heart; 

No father's love, no mother's joy, 

Nor kin nor kind to take my part. 

My lodging is the cold, cold ground, 

I eat the bread of charity; 

And when the kiss of love goes round, 

There is no kiss, alas, for me. 

Yet once I had a father dear, 
A mother, too, whom I could prize ; 
With ready hand to wipe the tear. 
If transient tear there chanced to rise. 
But cause for tears were rarely found, 
For all my heart was youthful glee ; 
And when the kiss of love went round. 
How sweet a kiss there was for me ! 

But ah! there came a war, they say: 

What is a war? I cannot tell; 

The drums and fifes did sweetly play, 

And loudly rang our village bell. 

In truth it was a pretty sound 

I thought, nor could I thence foresee, 

That when the kiss of love went round, 

There soon would be no kiss for me. 

A scarlet coat my father took. 

And sword as bright as bright could be; 

And feathers that so gaily look, 

All in a shining cap had he. 



118 THE ORPHAN BOY. 

Then how my little heart did bound! 
Alas, I thought it fine to see ; 
Nor dreampt, that when the kiss went round 
There soon would be no kiss for me. 

At length the bell again did ring; 
There was a victory they said. 
'T was what my father said he'd bring; 
But ah! it brought my father dead. 
My mother shrieked, her heart was wo; 
She clasped me to her trembling knee ; 
God grant that you may never know, 
How wild a kiss she gave to me ! 

But once again, but once again, 
These lips a mother's kisses felt; 
That once again, that once again. 
The tale a heart of stone would melt. 
'T was when upon her death-bed laid, 
(Alas! alas! that sight to see,) 
' My child J my child,' she feebly said, 
And gave a parting kiss to me. 

So now I am an orphan boy. 

With nought below my heart to cheer; 

No mother's love, no father's joy. 

Nor kin nor kind to wipe the tear. 

My lodging is the cold, cold ground; 

I eat the bread of charity; 

And when the kiss of love goes round, 

There is, alas, no kiss for me. 



THE SULTAN AND MR. HASWELL. II9 



THE SULTAN AND MR. HASWELL. 

In the year 1786, says Mrs. Inchbald, (the authoress of the play from which 
the following interesting extract is selected,) Howard^ under the name of 
Haswell^' was on his philanthropic travels through Europe and parts of 
Asia, to mitigate the sufferings of the prisoners. He fell a sacrifice to his 
humanity; for, visiting a sick person at Cherson, who had a malignant fe- 
ver, he caught the infection, and died January 20, 1790, aged 70. A statue is 
erected to his memory in St. Paul's Cathedral, with a suitable inscription. 

Sultan. Englishman, you were invited hither to 
receive public thanks for our troops restored to health 
bv your prescriptions. Ask a reward adequate to 
your services. 

Hasw, Sultan, the reward I ask, is, leave to pre- 
serve more of y6ur people still. 

Suit. How more? my subjects are in health; no 
contagion visits them. 

Hasiv. The prisoner is your subject. There, mis- 
ery, more contagious than disease, preys on the lives 
of hundreds: sentenced but to confinement, their doom 
is death. Immured in damp and dreary vaults, they 
daily perish; and who can tell but that, among the 
many hapless sufferers, there may be hearts bent down 
with penitence, to heaven and you, for every slight 
offence — there may be some, among the wretched 
multitude, even innocent victims. Let me seek them 
out — let me save them and you. 

Suit. Amazement! retract your application: curb 
this weak pity; and accept our thanks. 

Hasiv. Restrain my pity; — and what can I receive 
in recompense for that soft bond which links me to the 
wretched } and, while it soothes their sorrow, repays me 
more than all the gifts an empire can bestow ! — But, 
if it be a virtue repugnant to yc<<jir plan of govern- 
ment, I apply not in the name of Pity, but of Justice. 



120 THE SULTAN AND MR. HASWELL. 

Suit. Justice ! 

Hasw, The justice that forbids all, but the worst 
of criminals, to be denied that wholesome air the very 
brute creation freely takes. 

Suit. Consider for whom you plead — for men (if 
not base culprits) so misled, so depraved, they are 
dangerous to our state, and deserve none of its bless- 
ings. 

Hasw. If not upon the undeserving — if not upon 
the wretched wanderer from the paths of rectitude — 
where shall the sun diffuse his light, or the clouds 
distil their dew ? Where shall spring breathe fragrance, 
or autumn pour its plenty? 

Suit. Sir, your sentiments, still more your charac- 
ter, excite my curiosity. They tell me, that in our 
camps you visited each sick man's bed; administered 
yourself the healing draught; encouraged our sav- 
ages with the hope of life, or pointed out their better 
hope in death. — The widow speaks your charities, the 
orphan lisps your bounties and the rough Indian melts 
in tears to bless you. — I wish to ask why have you 
done all this } — what is it that prompts you thus to be- 
friend the miserable and forlorn? 

Hasw. It is in vain to explain: — ^the time it would 
take to reveal to you 

Suit. Satisfy my curiosity in writing, then. 

Hasw. Nay, if you will read, I'll send a book in 
which is already written why I act thus. 

Suit. What book? what is it called? 

Hasw. ^ The Christian Doctrine.^ There you will 
find all I have done was but my duty. 

Suit. Your words recall reflections that distract 
me ; nor can I bear the pressure on my mind, without 
confessing — I am a Christian. Mrs. Inchbald. 



PUBLIC FAITH. 1^1 



DEVOUT TRUST. 



O, let my trembling soul be still, 
While darkness veils this mortal eye, 
And wait thy wise, thy holy will; 
Wrapped yet in fear and mystery. 
I cannot. Lord, thy purpose see ; 
Yet all is well, since ruled by thee. 

When mounted on thy clouded car, 

Thou send'st thy darker spirits down, 

I can discern thy light afar. 

Thy light, sweet beaming through thy frown; 

And should I faint a moment, then 

I think of thee, and smile again. 

So trusting in thy love I tread 

The narrow path of duty on ; 

What, though some cherished joys are fled, 

What, though some flattering dreams are gone, 

Yet purer, brighter joys remain; 

Why should my spirit, then, complain? 

Bowinng, 



PUBLIC FAITH. 

Extract from a Speech, delivered in the House of Representatives of the 
United States, on the British Treaty, April 28, 1796. 

To expatiate on the value of public faith may pass 
with some men for declamation — ^to such men I have 
nothing to say. To others I will urge — can any cir- 
cumstance mark upon a people more turpitude and 

11 



122 PUBLIC FAITH. 

debasement? Can any thing tend more to make men 
think themselves mean, or degrade to a lower point 
their estimation of virtue, and their standard of action? 

It would not merely demoralize mankind, it tends to 
break all the ligaments of society, to dissolve that mys- 
terious charm which attracts individuals to the nation, 
and to inspire in its stead a repulsive sense of shame 
and disgust. 

What is patriotism? Is it a narrow affection for the 
spot where a man was born? Are the very clods 
where we tread entitled to this ardent preference be- 
cause they are greener ? No, sir, this is not the char- 
acter of the virtue, and it soars higher for its object. 
It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the en- 
joyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest 
filaments of the heart. 

It is thus we obey the laws of society, because they 
are the laws of virtue. In their authority we see, not 
the array of force and terror, but the venerable image 
of our country's honor. Every good citizen makes 
that honor his own, and cherishes it not only as pre- 
cious, but as sacred. He is willing to risk his life in 
its defence, and is conscious that he gains protection 
while he gives it. For, what rights of a citizen will 
be deemed inviolable, when a state renounces the prin- 
ciples that constitute their security ? 

Or, if this life should not be invaded, what would 
its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of 
strangers, and dishonored in his own? Could he look 
with affection and veneration to such a country as his 
parent? The sense of having one would die within 
him; he would blush for his patriotism, if he retained 
any, and justly, for it would be a vice. He would be 
a banished man in his native land. Fisher Ames. 



VIRTUOUS PRINCIPLE. 

THE SINGING BIRD. 

There was a bird 
Flitting about his little dome, 
With song the sweetest, ear hath heard, 
That seemed to say he loved his home. 
'T was morning, and his hour of joy; 
For well he loved the early scene, 
And aye his plumes his care employ. 
With many a caroled note between. 
There seemed to be intelligence, 
Which taught him 't was the hour. 
When living beings should commence 
Their matin praise to pour; 
And his was sweet; that little bird's 
Far sweeter was, than uttered words. 

His early song is silent now; 
His evening carol sounds no more; 
With one sad anthem warbled low. 
The flutterer's little life is o'er. 



IMPORTANCE OF VIRTUOUS PRINCIPLE. 

I FEEL, as I doubt not many feel, that the great dis- 
tinction of a nation, the only one worth possessing, and 
which brings after it all other blessings, is the preva- 
lence of pure principle among the citizens. I wish to 
belong to a state, in the character and institutions of 
which I may find a spring of improvement, which I 
can speak of with an honest pride, in whose records I 



124 VIRTUOUS PRINCIPLE. 

may meet great and honored names, and which is 
making the world its debtor by its discoveries of truth, 
and by an example of virtous freedom. O save me 
from a country which worships wealth, and cares not 
for true glory ; in which intrigue bears rule ; in which 
patriotism borrows its zeal from the prospect of office ; 
in which hungry sycophants throng with supplication 
all the departments of state; in which public men bear 
the brand of private vice, and the seat of government 
is a noisesome sink of private licentiousness and pub- 
lic corruption. 

Tell me not of the honor of belonging to a free 
country. I ask, does our liberty bear generous fruits? 
Does it exalt us in manly spirit, in public virtue, above 
countries trodden under foot by despotism ? Tell me 
not of the extent of our territory. I care not how 
large it is, if it multiply degenerate men. Speak not 
of our prosperity. Better be one of a poor people, 
plain in manners, revering God and respecting them- 
selves, than belong to a rich country which kaows no 
higher good than riches. 

Earnestly do I desire for this country, that, instead 
of copying Europe with an undiscerning servility, it 
may have a character of its own, corresponding to the 
freedom and equality of our institutions. One Europe 
is enough. One Paris is enough. How much to be 
desired is it, that, separated as we are from the east- 
ern continent by an ocean, we should be still more 
widely separated by simplicity of manners, by domes- 
tic purity, by inward piety, by reverence for human 
nature, by moral independence, by withstanding that 
subjection to fashion and that debilitating sensuality, 
which characterize the most civilized portions of the 
old world. Channing, 



THE ANGLER'S SONG. 125 



THE ANGLER'S SONG. 

From the river's pi ashy bank, 

Where the sedge grows green and rank. 

And the twisted woodbine springs, 
Upward speeds the morning lark 
To its silver cloud — and hark! 

On his way the woodman sings. 

On the dim and misty lakes 
Gloriously the morning breaks, 

And the eagle 's on his cloud: — 
Whilst the wind, with sighing woos 
To its arms the chaste cold ooze, 

And the rustling reeds pipe loud. 

Where the embracing ivy holds 
Close the hoar elm in its folds. 

In the meadow's fenny land. 
And the winding river sweeps 
Through its shallows and still deeps, — 

Silent with my rod I stand. 

But when sultry suns are high 
Underneath the oak I lie. 

As it shades the water's edge, 
And I mark my line, away 
In the wheeling eddy, play, 

Tkngling with the river sedge. 

When the eye of evening looks 
On the green woods and winding brooks. 
And the wind sighs o'er the lea, — 



126 IMMORTALITY OF MAN. 

Woods and streams, — I leave you then, 
While the shadow in the glen 

Lengthens by the greenwood tree. 

Longfellow. 



THE IMMORTALITY OF MAN, 

The doctrine of immortality, how wonderful soever 
it may seem, is not more amazing than many facts 
presented to our daily observation. Man, at the hour 
of his birth, undergoes a mighty change in the means 
of his subsistence and mode of his being; and were he 
capable of anticipating that change, and of reasoning 
upon it, his life in the world would appear a problem 
as difficult as immortality does at present. Death 
may immediately, in the natural course of things, put 
us into a higher and more enlarged state of life, as our 
birth does. The one, like the other, may be a con- 
tinuation and enlargement of powers. 

After birth, there is a continuation and enlargement 
of the same material fabric, which was formed before 
we saw the light. That fabric death dissolves — we 
have no reason, however, to conclude that death de- 
stroys the thinking principle. The vegetable dies, to 
live no more; but it cannot be fairly pleaded that man 
falls under the same law. The analogy does not hold ; 
for the vegetable attains the utmost maturity of which 
it is capable, and it is wholly destitute of that which is 
the subject of our present consideration — the cogita- 
tive substance, the capacity of perfection and action. 

Organized bodies may be dissolved, and the forms 
and combinations of material substances altered. By 



IMMORTALITY OF MAN. 127 

these alterations, the qualities as well as the form of 
bodies may be changed. Our bodies are in a state 
of unceasing mutation; and these mutations, in many 
instances, greatly influence our corporeal qualities; 
but the consciousness of identity is in no degree affect- 
ed by these continual changes. Hence, as well as by 
the only conception which we are capable of forming 
of mind, we are led to infer that the thinking princi- 
ple is a simple and immaterial substance; and if it be 
so, the dissolution of the body by no means, involves 
the extinction of that principle. It may continue to 
exist, to think, and to will, after the material taberna- 
cle in which it is at present lodged, shall be laid in 
ruins. 

Indeed, it must exist as a thinking principle, unless 
it be annihilated; for it cannot perish by alteration of 
form or dissolution of parts, and that it will be annihi- 
lated we have no reason to expect. From the will in 
the Deity to create, we may infer the design to pre- 
serve; and of annihilation we have no instances in 
the material world. Forms are changed; but substan- 
ces remain, merely passing into new combinations. 
A simple and immaterial substance, however, is not 
subject to a process of this kind. While it exists, it 
mast exist with properties unchanged. The removal 
of its material instruments cannot alter its essential 
qualities. 

Nor, can we suppose that a creature endued with 
such noble faculties, and capable of such progressive 
improvement, shall, at once and forever, be arrested 
in his progress towards perfection. Has the Deity 
bestowed upon him powers capable of grand advances 
in excellence, and shall he stop him in his glorious 
career, blast his hopes, and destroy the fruit of all his 



128 PATERNAL AFFECTION. 

toils ? Has he inspired him with the sentiment of im- 
mortaUty, merely to disappoint him? With all his 
lofty capacities, attainments, and anticipations, is man 
merely an ephemeral being? Must his labors and 
his hopes perish in the dust ? Must all the splendor 
of his moral and intellectual nature vanish, like the 
meteor which gleams for a moment, and is extinguish- 
ed forever ? Are all the intimations of his nature, and 
of the world around him, mere delusions? 

These things cannot be so. The phenomena of the 
universe justify no such suppositions. Every thing 
conspires to intimate a different result. The senti- 
ments of humanity, and the perfections of God, as 
engraven on his works, bear testimony to the immor- 
tality of man. The faculties which have budded here 
shall blossom hereafter — the course of improvement 
begun in time shall be continued in eternity. 

Fergus, 



PATERNAL AFFECTION. 

How mildly beams a father's face! 
How true and tender his embrace I 
Heaven blends the hearts of sire and son; 
Their kindred souls are joined in one; 
No stay is like a father's arm; 
No eye so quick to guard from harm; 
And more the heart his counsels move, 
Than pleasure's voice, or woman's love. 

Hath fickle passion wronged thy youth? 
Cling to his side, whose love is truth: 



VINDICATION OF SPAIN. 129 

Have friends thy innocence beguiled? 
Guileless a father guides his child; 
Or hast thou vainly wandered far, ' 
To search for truth's directing star? 
Return and claim thy sire's embrace; 
His bosom be thy resting-place. 

Or hast thou aimed to soar in skies, 

Where mightier spirits fearless rise, 

And feeble, as the bird that springs 

Toward heaven, ere time hath nerved his wings, 

With flagging plumes too soon returnest, 

All drooping to the ground thou spurnest, 

Fly to thy father's traquil breast, 

Thou weary bird, make there thy nest. 

Alas, for orphan hearts, that mourn 
The dearest ties of nature torn; 
They gaze not on a father's eye; 
No more upon his bosom lie ; 
For them life's surest friend is gone; 
In grief, in hope their hearts are lone; 
And e'en should love still light its fires. 
What earthly love is like as sire's? Bancroft. 



VINDICATION OF SPAIN, 

Permit me, sir, to express my regret and decided 
disapprobation of the terms of reproach and contempt 
in which this nation has been spoken of on this floor; 
* poor, degraded Spain,' has resounded from various 
parts of the house. Is it becoming, sir, the dignity 



130 VINDICATION OF SPAIN. 

of a representative of the American people to utter, 
from his high station, invectives against a nation, with 
whom we cultivate and maintain the most friendly re- 
lations? Is it discreet, sir, in an individual, however 
enlightened, to venture upon a denunciation of a whole 
people ? 

We talk of a war with Spain, as a matter of amuse- 
ment. I do not desire to partake of it. It will not 
be found a very comfortable war, not from her power 
to do so much harm, but from the impossibility of 
gaining any thing by it, or of wearing out her patience, 
or subduing her fortitude. The history of every Span- 
ish war, is a history of immovable obstinacy, that 
seems to be confirmed and hardened by misfortune 
and trial. In her frequent contests with England, the 
latter, after all her victories, has been the first to de- 
sire peace. 

Let gentlemen not deceive themselves, about the 
pleasantry of a Spanish war. May they not, sir, 
have some respect for the past character of this na- 
tion ? The time has been, when a Spanish knight, was 
the type of every thing that was chivalrous in valor, 
generous in honor, and pure in patriotism. A cen- 
tury has hardly gone by, since the Spanish infantry 
was the terror of Europe, and the pride of soldiers. 
But those days of her glory are past. Where, now, 
is that invincible courage ; that noble devotion to hon- 
or; that exalted love of country .^ Let me tell you, in 
a voice of warning ; they are buried in the mines of 
Mexico, and the mountains of Peru. Beware, my 
countrymen; look not with so eager an eye to these 
fatal possessions, which will also be the grave of your 
strength and virtue, should you be so unfortunate as 
to obtain them. HopJcimon, 



THE MORAVIAN NUNS. 131 



PULASKI'S BANNER. 

The standard of Count Pulaski, the noble Pole, who fell in the attack upon 
Savannah, during the American Revolution, was of crimson silk, embroi- 
dered by the Moravian Xuns of Bethlehem, in Pennsylvania. The fol- 
lowing Hymn is presumed to have been used by them at the time of its 
consecration. 

When the dying flame of day 

Through the chancel shot its ray, 

Far the glimmering tapers shed 

Faint light on the cowled head. 

And the censer burning swung, 

Where before the altar hung 

That proud banner, which with prayer 

Had been consecrated there. 
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, 
Sung low in the dim mysterious aisle. 

Take thy banner ! — may it wave 
Proudly o'er the good and brave. 
When the battle's distant wail 
Breaks the sabbath of our vale, — 
When the clarion's music thrills 
To the hearts of these lone hills, — 
When the spear in conflict shakes, 
And the strong lance shivering breaks. 

Take thy banner! — and beneath 
The war-cloud's encircling wreath, 
Guard it — till our homes are free — 
Guard it — God will prosper thee! 
In the dark and trying hour. 
In the breaking forth of power, 
In the rush of steeds and men, 
His right hand will shield thee then. 



132 MODERN REPUBLICS. 

Take thy banner! But when night 

Closes round the ghastly fight. 

If the vanquished warrior bow, 

Spare him ! — by our holy vow, 

By our prayers and many tears. 

By the mercy that endears, 

Spare him — he our love hath shared — 

Spare him — as thou wouldst be spared! 

Take thy banner! — and if e'er 
Thou sliouldst press the soldier's bier. 
And the muffled drum should beat 
To the tread of mournful feet, 
Then this crimson flag shall be 
Martial cloak and shroud for thee! 
And the warrior took that banner proud. 
And it was his martial cloak and shroud. 

Longfellow, 



MODERN REPUBLICS. 

Where are the republics of modern times, which 
clustered round immortal Italy ? Venice and Genoa 
exist but in name. The Alps, indeed, look down 
upon the brave and peaceful Swiss in their native fast- 
nesses; but the guaranty of their freedom is in their 
weakness, and not in their strength. The mountains 
are not easily crossed, and the valleys are not easily 
retained. When the invader comes, he moves like an 
avalanche, carrying destruction in his path. The 
peasantry sink before him. The country is too poor 
for plunder; and too rough for valuable conquest. 



MODERN REPUBLICS. 133 

Nature presents her eternal barriers on every side to 
check the wantonness of ambition; and Switzerland 
remains with her simple institutions, a military road to 
fairer climates, scarcely worth a permanent possession. 
We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the 
last experiment of self-government by the people. 
We have begun it under circumstances of the most 
auspicious nature. We are in the vigor of youth. 
Our growth has never been checked by the oppres- 
sions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been 
enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the old world. 
Such as we are, we have been from the beginning; 
simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-govern- 
ment and self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us 
and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, 
stretching through many degrees of latitude and lon- 
gitude, we have the choice of many products, and 
many means of independence. The government is 
mild. The press is free. Knowledge reaches, or 
may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of suc- 
cess could be presented ? What means more adequate 
to accomplish the sublime end ? What more is neces- 
sary, than for the people to preserve what they them- 
selves have created? 

Already has the age caught the spirit of our institu- 
tions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuf- 
fed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself 
into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny 
plains of France, and the lowlands of Holland. It has 
touched the philosophy of Germany and the North, 
and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece 
the lessons of her better days. 

Can it be, that America under such circumstances 
can betray herself ? That she is to be added to the 

12 



134 THE TROOPER'S DIRGE. 

catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose 
ruins is — 'They were, but they are not/ Forbid it, 
my countrymen; forbid it, Heaven! Story, 



THE TROOPER'S DIRGE. 

To horse, — to horse, — the bugles call, 

And sadly swells the mournful strain, 
That warns us to the burial 

Of one who ne'er shall mount again. 
His course is run, — his fame is won, — 

For well he reined as free a steed 

As ever bore to daring deed, 
When charging hosts came spurring on. 

His course is run, — his battle 's done, — 
He died as aye he wished to die, — 

The well-fought field was fairly won. 
And Victory pealed her clarion nigh; 

Nor on his lip of beauteous pride. 
When high in hope, he rode among 
The brave, the noble, and the young. 

Wreathed such a smile as when he died. 

Stern eyes became, as woman's, weak, 
Nor scorned to soil the clustering gold 

That floated o'er his marble cheek. 

With tears that would not be controlled. 

For though none bolder struck with brand 
When boiling veins were up and wild, 
Yet never even the gentlest child 

Had kinder heart or freer hand. 



THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON. 135 

To horse, — to horse, — no more I weep; 

His high career was run full fast, 
And so on battle-field I'd sleep 

My last long sleep of death at last. 
No more I weep, — but far away 

Are deep blue eyes to weep in vain, — 

Fair lips not soon to smile again, — 
And hearts to wail this bitter day. 



THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON. 

McFuse. What may be your opinion of these 
doings, as you call them, Mr. Sage? You, who are 
a man of observation, should understand your coun- 
trymen, will they fight? 

Sage, A rat will fight if the cats pen him. 

McF. But do the Americans conceive themselves 
to be penned? 

Sage. Why, that is pretty much as people think, 
captain; the country was in a great toss, about the 
stamps and the tea; but I always said, such folks as 
didn't give their notes-of-hand, and had no great rel- 
ish for any thing more than country food, would n't 
find themselves cramped by the laws, after all. 

McF, Then you see no great oppression in being 
asked to pay your bit of a tax, master Sage, to main- 
tain such a worthy fellow as myself, in a decent equip- 
age, to fight your battles. 

Sage. Why, as to that, captain, I suppose we can 
do pretty much the whole of our fighting, when occa- 
sion calls; though I don't think there is much stom- 
ach for such doings among the people, without need. 

McF. But, what do you think the Committee of 



136 THE BATTLE OF LEXINGTON. 

Safety, and your Sons of Liberty, as they call them- 
selves, really mean by their parades of minute men, 
their gathering of provisions, carrying off the cannon, 
and such other formidable and appalling preparations 
— ha! honest Seth? Do they think to frighten British 
soldiers with the roll of a drum, or are they amusing 
themselves, like boys in the holydays, with playing 
war ? 

Sage. I should conclude that the people are pretty 
much engaged, and in earnest. 

McF, To do what? To forge their own chains, 
that we may fetter them, in truth. 

Sage. Why, seeing that they have burnt the Stamps, 
and thrown the tea into the harbor, and since that, 
have taken the management into their own hands, I 
should rather conclude that they have pretty much 
determined to do what they think best. 

Lincoln, {laughing^) You appear to come to con- 
clusion with our host, captain McFuse, notwithstand- 
ing so much is determined. Is it well understood, Mr. 
Sage, that large reinforcements are coming to the col- 
onies, and to Boston, in particular? 

Sage. Why, yes; it seems to be pretty generally 
contemplated on. 

lAn. And what is the result of these contempla- 
tions? 

Sage. Why, as the country is considerably engag- 
ed in the business, there are some, who think if the 
ministers don't open the port, that it will be done, 
without much further words, by the people. 

lAn. Do you know, that such an attempt would 
lead directly to a civil war ? 

Sage. I suppose it safe to calculate that such 
doings would bring on disturbances. 



THE BAY OF NAPLES. I37 

Lin. And you speak of it, sir, as a thing, not to 
be deprecated, or averted by every possible means in 
the power of the nation. 

Sage. If the port is opened, and the right to tax 
given up, I can find a man in Boston who '11 engage to 
let them draw all the blood, that will be spilt, from his 
own veins, for nothing. 



THE BAY OF NAPLES. 

See how the peaceful ripple breaks, 
In calmness on the verdant shore. 
While Zephyr, gently breathing, wakes 
The slumbering spirit of each flower. 
Which glows in beauteous brilliancy. 
Along the margin of the tide. 
And oft arrests the wandering eye. 
As o'er the waves we gently glide. 

Let us unfold the swelling sail. 
Beneath the silent, silvery moon; 
And catch the softly murmuring gale. 
Which breathes in midnight's solemn noon. 
And thou, my friend, shall guide us now 
Along the bosom of the bay. 
While seated on the lofty prow 
We mark the ripple, that our way 
Leaves on the waters, like the streak 
Of morning, on an Alpine height. 
When Sol's first radient daybeams break, 
In all the glow of infant light. 
12* 



138 THE BAY OF NAPLES. 

What sounds resound along the shores! 
What echoes wake from off the seas! 
While music from Italian bowers, 
Comes mingled with the evening breeze; 
The careless sailor floats along, 
Slow wafled by the ebbing flood, 
And swells the chorus of the song, 
Which joyous peals from hill and wood. 
And laughing bands of youth are there, 
Who deftly dance to lightest measure, 
And sea, and shore, and earth, and air, 
Resound to mellow notes of pleasure. 

But, ah! 'tis past; a deeper brown 
Has tinged the foilage of the wood, 
Vesuvius' mighty shadows frown. 
Majestically o'er the flood; 
The moon has set, and shadowy sleep 
Now holds dominion o'er mankind. 
Binding in slumber's vision deep. 
The force of thought and power of mind. 

In shadowy grandeur now appears. 
The genius of the olden time, 
And marks the ravages of years 
In her once highly favored clime; 
Sad on the ruins of the past. 
Dark melancholy broods alone; 
Marking the wreck of temples vast. 
The ruined shrine and altar stone. 

Fair land! where oft, in days of yore, 
The hymns of liberty were sung ; 
Thy boasted empire 's now no more, 



THE CHARACTER OF WOMAN. 139 

Thy lyre of freedom all unstrung. 
But, still the spirit loves to tread 
Where sleep the great of ages ended, 
For, musing on the mighty dead. 
They seem with all thy scenery blended. 
They seem to whisper in thy trees, 
They seem to flit along thy mountains. 
They seem to float in evening's breeze. 
They seem to haunt thy limpid fountains. 

T. W. Stone. 



THE CHARACTER OF WOMAN. 

The influence of the female character is now felt 
and acknowledged in all the relations of life. I speak 
not now of those distinguished w^omen, who instruct 
their age through the public press. Nor of those whose 
devout strains we take upon our lips when we worship. 
But of a much larger class; of those whose influence 
is felt in the relations of neighbor, friend, daughter, 
wife, mother. 

Who waits at the couch of the sick to administer 
tender charities while life lingers, or to perform the 
last acts of kindness when death comes ? Where shall 
we look for those examples of friendship, that most 
adorn our nature; those abiding friendships, which 
trust even when betrayed, and survive all changes of 
fortune ? Where shall we find the brightest illustra- 
tions of filial piety? Have you ever seen a daughter, 
herself, perhaps, timid and helpless, watching the 
decline of an aged parent, and holding out with heroic 
fortitude to anticipate his wishes, to administer to his 



140 THE CHARACTER OF WOMAN. 

wants, and to sustain his tottering steps to the very 
borders of the grave? 

But in no relation does woman exercise so deep an 
influence, both immediately and prospectively, as in 
that of mother. To her is committed the immortal 
treasure of the infant mind. Upon her devolves the 
care of the first stages of that course of discipline, 
which is to form a being, perhaps, the most frail and 
helpless in the world, the fearless ruler of animated 
creation, and the devout adorer of his great Creator. 

Her smiles call into exercise the first affections, 
that spring up in our hearts. She cherishes and ex 
pands the earliest germs of our intellects. She breathes 
over us her deepest devotions. She lifts our little 
hands, and teaches our little tongues to lisp in prayer. 
She watches over us, like a guardian angel, and pro- 
tects us through all our helpless years when we know 
not of her cares and her anxieties on our account. She 
follows us into the world of men, and lives in us and 
blesses us, when she lives not otherwise upon the 
earth. 

What constitutes the centre of every home ? Whith- 
er do our thoughts turn, when our feet are weary with 
wandering, and our hearts sick with disappointments? 
Where shall the truant and forgetful husband go for 
sympathy unalloyed and without design, but to the 
bosom of her, who is ever ready and waiting to share in 
his adversity or his prosperity. And if there be a tri- 
bunal, where the sins and the follies of a froward child 
may hope for pardon and forgiveness, this side heaven, 
that tribunal is the heart of a fond and devoted mother. 

Finally, her influence is felt deeply in religion. * If 
Christianity should be compelled to flee from the man- 
sions of the great, the academies of philosophers, the 



HOME. 141 

halls of legislators, or the throng of busy men, we 
should find her last and purest retreat with woman at 
the fireside; her last altar would be the female heart; 
her last audiencd^ would be the children gathered round 
the knees of the mother; her last sacrifice, the secret 
prayer escaping in silence from her lips, and heard, 
perhaps, only at the throne of God.' Carter, 



HOME. 

Home! how that blessed word thrills the ear! 

In it what recollections blend! 
It tells of childhood's scenes so dear, 

And speaks of many a cherished friend. 

O! through the world, where'er we roam. 
Though souls be pure and lips be kind. 

The heart with fondness turns to home. 
Still turns to those it left behind. 

The bird, that soars to yonder skies, 

Though nigh to heaven, still seems unblessed; 
It leaves them, and with rapture flies 

Downward to its own much loved nest. 

Though beauteous scenes may meet its view, 
And breezes blow from balmy groves, 

With wing untired and bosom true. 
It turns to that dear spot it loves. 

When Heaven shall bid this soul depart, 
This form return to kindred earth, 



142 PHYSICAL EDUCATION. 

May the last throb, which swells my heart, 
Heave, where it started into birth. 

And should affection shed one tear; 

Should friendship linger round my tomb; 
The tribute will be doubly dear, 

When given by those of ' home, sweet home.' 



PHYSICAL EDUCATION. 

Who would think of planting the mountain oak in a 
greenhouse, or of rearing the cedar of Lebanon in a 
lady's flower pot? Who does not know that in order 
to attain their mighty strength and majestic forms, 
they must freely enjoy the rain and the sunshine, and 
must feel the rocking of the tempest? Who would 
think of raising up a band of Indian warriors, upon 
cakes and jellies and beds of down, and amid all the 
luxuries an^ ease of wealth and carefulness? 

The attempt would be highly preposterous, not to 
say utterly ridiculous. Very different is the course, 
which nature points out. It is the plain and scanty 
fare of these sons of the forest, their hard and cold 
lodging, their long marches and fastings, and their 
constant exposure to all the hardships of the wilder- 
ness, which give them such Herculean limbs and stat- 
ure; such prodigious might in the deadly fray, and 
such swiflness of foot in pursuing the vanquished. 

I am far, however, from saying, that such training, 
would ensure to every child the arm of Achilles, or the 
courage of Logan, or the consitution and daring of 
Martin Luther. Some would doubtless sink under a 



PHYSICAL EDUCATION. J43 

vigorous early discipline ; but not near so many, as is 
generally supposed. The truth is, there is a mis- 
taken tenderness, which daily interferes with the 
health-giving economy of Heaven. Too many pa- 
rents, instead of building upon the foundation, which 
God has laid, first subvert that foundation by mis- 
placed indulgences, and then vainly attempt to build 
among the ruins. They cross and perplex nature so 
much, in her efforts to make their children strong and 
healthy, that she at length refuses to do any thing, 
and the doting parents are left to patch up the shat- 
tered and puny constitution as well as they can, with 
tonics and essences. 

In this way, not a few young men of good talents, 
are rendered physically incapable of pursuing their 
studies to any advantage. They can never bear the 
fatigue of close and long continued application. The 
mind would gladly work, but the earthly tabernacle is 
so extremely frail, that every vigorous effort shakes it 
to the foundation. It is like setting up the machinery 
of a furnace, in a mere shed, without studs or braces 
— or like attempting to raise the steam for a large ship, 
in a tin boiler. Whatever talents a youth may pos- 
sess, he can accomplish but little in the way of study, 
without a good constitution to sustain his mental 
efforts; and such a constitution is not a blessing to be 
enjoyed of course. Like almost every other gift of 
heaven, it is to be obtained by human providence, and 
in the use of means adapted to the end. 

Humphrey, 



144 NATIONAL DISTINCTIONS. 



AN EVENING SKETCH. 

'T WAS eve ; the broadly shining sun 
Its long, celestial course, had run; 
The twilight heaven, so soft and blue, 
Met earth in tender interview. 

Like happy islands of the sky. 
The gleaming clouds reposed on high, 
Each fixed sublime, deprived of motion, 
A Delos to the airy ocean. 
Upon the stirless shore no breeze 
Shook the green drapery of the trees, 
Or, rebel to tranquillity. 
Awoke a ripple on the sea. 

Nor, in a more tumultuous sound, 
Were the world's audible breathings drowned; 
The low strange hum of herbage growing. 
The voice of hidden waters flowing. 
Made songs of nature, which the ear 
Could scarcely be pronounced to hear; 
But noise had furled its subtle wings, 
And moved not through material things, 
All which lay calm as they had been 
Parts of the painter's mimic scene. 



NATIONAL DISTINCTIONS. 

Nations are often distinguished by a peculiar 
character, which may be owing in some measure to 
external circumstances; but which is formed chiefly by 



NATIONAL DISTINCTIONS. 145 

education, fashion, and habit. A Turk and a Greek, 
born in the same climate, and inhabiting the same 
country, are very unlike in character. The Turk is 
grave and silent; the Greek volatile and talkative. 
Is not this difference entirely owing to education and 
habit ? What difference is there between the Ameri- 
can Indian chanting his death-song and setting the 
cruelty of his enemies at defiance, and Patkul on the 
wheel? Is not the sensibility of the Indian as great, 
and his sufferings as acute as those of any other per- 
son in similar circumstances.'' Education, sentiment, 
and habit, however, have fortified his mind against the 
sense of pain, and the fear of death. 

That there is some original and inexplicable differ- 
ence of constitution and temper, as well as of talents, 
among beings, may be admitted. But, generally speak- 
ing, what is called natural temper is merely, a certain 
state of mind which indulgence has formed into habit. 
If we have a bad temper, it is because we have not 
been duly careful to form a good one. If unworthy 
passions predominate in our minds, it is because we 
have cherished them. If our conduct be incorrect, it 
is because we are not attentive in regulating it. 

Education, fashion, and habit, have a vast influence 
on our intellectual operations; and exercise a power- 
ful sway over our moral judgments. But this does 
not disprove the moral constitution of man, nor estab- 
lish any original difference of moral sentiment among 
different families of the human race, any more than an 
artificial difference in the figure of some parts of the 
body proves a different organization. 

On viewing the distorted cranium of some tribes of 
American Indians, or the small feet of the females in 
the Chinese empire, shall we maintain that nature has 
13 



146 PREVALENCE OF POETRY, 

assigned no particular shape or size to the human 
head and feet? Because different nations entertain 
different opinions concerning the figure of the earth, 
or the motions of the solar system, shall we argue that 
reason is essentially different in the inhabitants of dif- 
ferent nations, or that the figure of the earth, and the 
motions of the solar system, are merely ideal, and have 
no real existence? 

In like manner, on witnessing a difference of moral 
sentiment, shall we imagine that the Creator has be- 
stowed no moral nature on man, or that there is an 
original difference in the moral constitution of human 
beings? No; both in the one case and in the other 
the peculiarity is a perversion. It is the triumph of 
bad education and vicious fashion over the appoint-, 
ment of the Creator. Fergus, 



PREVALENCE OF POETRY. 

The world is full of poetry — the air 
Is living with its spirit; and the waves 
Dance to the music of its melodies 
And sparkle in its brightness — Earth is veiled, 
And mantled with its beauty ; and the walls, 
That close the universe, with crystal, in. 
Are eloquent with voices that proclaim 
The unseen glories of immensity, 
In harmonies, too perfect, and too high 
For aught but beings of celestial mould, ' 
And speak to man, in one eternal hymn, 
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. 



BENEFITS OF AGRICULTURE. 147 

'Tis not the chime and flow of words^ that move 

In measured file, and metrical array; 

'T is not the union of returning sounds, 

Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, 

And quantity and accent that can give 

This all-pervading spirit to the ear. 

Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 

'T is a mysterious feeling, which combines 
Man with the world around him in a chain 
Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness, till 
He taste the high communion of his thoughts, 
With all existences, in earth and heaven. 
That meet him in the charm of grace and power. 

'T is not the noisy babbler, who displays. 

In studied phrase, and ornate epithet. 

And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts, 

Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments. 

That overload their littleness. — Its words 

Are few, but deep and solemn; and they break 

Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full 

Of all that passion, w^hich on Carmel, fired 

The holy prophet, when his lips were coals, 

His language winged with terror, as when bolts 

Leap from the brooding tempest, armed with wrath, 

Commissioned to affright us, and destroy. 

Percival: 



BENEFITS OF AGRICULTURE. 

Agriculture is the greatest among the arts; for it 
is first in supplying our necessities. It is the mother 
and nurse of all other arts. It favors and strengthens 



- 148 BENEFITS OF AGRICULTURE. 

population; it creates and maintains manufactures; 
gives employment to navigation, and materials to com- 
merce. It animates every species of industry, and 
opens to nations the surest channels of opulence. It 
is also the strongest bond of well regulated society, 
the surest basis of internal peace, the natural associ- 
ate of good morals. 

We ought to count among the benefits of agri:cul- 
ture the charm which the practice of it communicates 
to a country life. That charm which has made the 
country, in our own view, the retreat of the hero, the 
asylum of the sage, and the temple of the historic 
muse. The strong desire, the longing after the coun- 
try, with which we find the bulk of mankind to be pen- 
etrated, points to it as the chosen abode of sublunary 
bliss. The sweet occupations of culture, with her 
varied products and attendant enjoyments are, at least, 
a relief from the stifling atmosphere of the city, the 
monotony of subdivided employments, the anxious 
uncertainty of commerce, the vexations of ambition so 
often disappointed, of self-love so often mortified, of 
factitious pleasures and unsubstantial vanities. 

Health, the first and best of all the blessings of life, 
is preserved and fortified by the practice of agricul- 
ture. That state of well-being which we feel and 
cannot define; that self-satisfied disposition which de- 
pends, perhaps, on the perfect equilibrium and easy 
play of vital forces, turns the slightest acts to pleasure, 
and makes every exertion of our faculties a source of 
enjoyment; this inestimable state of our bodily func- 
tions is most vigorous in the country, and if lost else- 
where, it is in the country we expect to recover it. 

The very theatre of agricultural avocations, gives 
them a value that is peculiar; for who can contem- 



THE LITTLE THIEF. 149 

plate, without emotion, the magnificent spectacle of 
nature when,' arrayed in vernal hues, she renews the 
scenery of the world! All things revive her powerful 
voice — the meadow resumes its freshness and ver- 
dure; a living sap circulates through every budding 
tree; flowers spring to meet the warm caresses of 
Zephyr, and from their opening petals pour forth rich 
perfume. The songsters of the forest once more 
awake, and in tones of melody again salute the com- 
ing dawn; and again they deliver to the evening 
echo their strains of tenderness and love. Can man — 
rational, sensitive man — can he remain unmoved by 
the surrounding presence! and where else than in the 
country can he behold, where else can he feel this 
jubilee of nature, this universal joy! Mac JS*even. 



THE LITTLE THIEF. 

I TELL with equal truth and grief, 
That little Kitt's an arrant thief: 
Before the urchin well could go, 
She stole the whiteness of the snow; 
And more — that whiteness to adorn, 
She stole the blushes of the morn ; 
Stole all the softness JEther pours 
On primrose buds in vernal showers: 
There 's no repeating all her wiles — 
She stole the Graces' winning smiles; 
'T was quickly seen she robbed the sky, 
To plant a star in either eye ; 
She pilfered orient pearl for teeth, 
And stole the cow's ambrosial breath; 
13* 



150 AMERICAN HISTORY, 

The cherry steeped in morning dew, 
Gave moisture to her lips and hue. 
These were her infant spoils, a store 
To which, in time, she added more: 
At twelve she stole from Ciprus' queen 
Her air and love-commanding mien: . 
She sung — amazed the Sirens heard. 
And, to assert their voice, appeared: 
She played — the Muses, from their hill. 
Wondered who thus had stole their skill: 
Apollo's wit was next her prey. 
And then the beams that light the day; 
While Jove, her pilfering thefts to crown. 
Pronounced these beauties all her own; 
Pardoned her crimes, and praised her art; 
And t' other day she stole — my heart. 



CHARACTERISTICS OF AMERICAN HISTORY. 

American history has not, like the history of the 
old world, the charm of classical or romantic associa- 
tions, and it bends itself with difficulty and without 
grace, to the purposes of poetry and fiction. But in 
ethical instruction, in moral dignity, it has no equal. 

The study of the history of most other nations, fills 
the mind with sentiments not unlike those which the 
American traveller feels on entering the venerable 
and lofty cathedral of some proud old city of Europe. 
Its solemn grandeur, its vastness, its obscurity, strike 
awe to his heart. From the richly painted windows, 
filled with sacred emblems and strange antique forms, 
a dim religious light falls around. A thousand recol- 



AMERICAN HISTORY. 151 

lections of romance and poetry, and legendary story, 
come thronging in upon him. He is surrounded by 
the tombs of the mighty dead, rich with the labors 
of ancient art, and emblazoned with the pomp of her- 
aldry. 

What names does he read upon them ? Those of 
princes and nobles who are now remembered only for 
their vices; and of sovereigns, at whose death no 
tears were shed, and whose memories lived not an 
hour in the affections of their people. There, too, he 
sees other names, long familiar to him for their guilty 
or ambiguous fame. There rest, the blood-stained 
soldier of fortune — the orator, who was ever the ready 
apologist of tyranny — great scholars, who were the 
pensioned flatterers of power — and poets, who profaned 
the high gift of genius, to pamper the vices of a cor- 
rupted court. 

Our own history, on the contrary, like that poetical 
temple of fame, reared by the imagination of Chau- 
cer, and decorated by the taste of Pope, is almost 
exclusively dedicated to the memory of the truly 
great. Or rather, like the Pantheon of Rome, it 
stands in calm and severe beauty, amid the ruins of 
ancient magnificence and ^the toys of modern state.' 
Within, no idle ornament encumbers its bold simpli- 
city. The pure light of heaven enters from above and 
sheds an equal and serene radiance around. As the 
eye wanders about its extent, it beholds the unadorn- 
ed monuments of brave and good men who have 
bled or toiled for their country, or it rests on votive 
tablets inscribed with the names of the blest bene- 
factors of mankind. 



152 THE BEGGAR MAN. 



THE BEGGAR MAN. 

Abject, stooping, old, and wan, 
See yon wretched beggar man; 
Once a father's hopeful heir, 
Once a mother's tender care. 
When too young to understand, 
He but scorched his little hand, 
By the candle's flaming light 
Attracted,- dancing, spiral, bright; 
Clasping fond her darling round, 
A thousand kisses healed the wound: 
Now, abject, stooping, old, and wan, 
No mother tends the beggar man. 

Then nought too good for him to wear, 
With cherub face and flaxen hair. 
In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed, 
Cap of lace with rose to aid; 
Milk-white hat and feather blue; 
Shoes of red; and coral too. 
With silver bells to please his ear, 
And charm the frequent ready tear. 
Now, abject, stooping, old, and wan. 
Neglected is the beggar man. 

See the boy advance in age, 

And learning spreads her useful page; 

In vain; for giddy pleasure calls, 

And shows the marbles, tops, and balls. 

What 's learning to the charms of play ? 

Th' indulgent tutor must give way. 

A heedless wilful dunce, and wild. 



VALUE OF THE SOUL. 153 

The parents' fondness spoiled the child; 
The youth in vagrant courses ran. 
Now, abject, stooping, old, and wan, 
Their fondling is the beggar man. 

Mrs, Leicester. 



VALUE OF THE SOUL. 

What a tumult of exultation would the promised 
sovereignty of a world excite in the human breast! 
How would the purpled robe, the jewelled diadem, the 
exalted throne, crowd in thick array upon the fancy 
as it gazed upon the glittering phantom! How would 
the heart expand to meet the love and reverence of 
subject millions! With what intense energy would 
every passion spring to the enjoyment of its object! 
With what exulting transports to accommodate itself 
to its exalted destiny ! 

Yet this world, with all its pomp and power attend- 
ant on its possession; this world, whose sovereignty 
in prospect would absorb every faculty of our nature, 
is declared by our Saviour to be far inferior in value 
to a single soul. To one accustomed to estimate 
every thing by a worldly standard, this may appear at 
first a startling proposition. Yet even such a man 
cannot withhold his assent, when he considers the 
excellent nature of the soul itself, the eternity of exist- 
ence to which it is destined, and the surprising proofs 
of the estimate at which it is held by higher intellects 
than ours. 

As God pervades the universe, directing and con- 
trolling its complicated operations; so the human soul, 



154 VALUE OF THE SOUL. 

in a far lower sphere it is true, and with far inferior yet 
similar powers, rules with absolute dominion that tab- 
ernacle of clay in which it dwells. Is God infinitely 
superior to the universe of matter which he governs.'^ 
In like manner, though not in equal degree, is the 
soul of man superior to the frame which it inhabits, 
and to the kindred earth from which that frame was 
formed. 

The soul also contains within itself a principle of 
immortality, which adds immeasurably to its excel- 
lence. Every thing else in our world is subject to 
decay. The fairest flower must wither; the tallest 
oak of the forest must waste away and fall; man's own 
body must sink into the grave and return to its kind- 
red dust; the proudest palace that his hands have 
built must crumble into ruins; the fame which we 
vainly call immortal must fade and be forgotten; the 
earth itself must cease its revolutions, and perish in 
the final conflagration. But the soul, more noble, 
more excellent than them all, shall never die; igno- 
rant of decay, it shall live on throughout the boundless 
ages of eternity! 

Why is it that the hosts of heaven continue still to 
bend an attentive eye on this far distant planet? Is it 
to mark with what precise exactness it accomplishes 
its days and months and years ? Is it to observe the 
dreary stillness that pervades its depopulated regions, 
or contemplate the hue of universal death that has 
gathered on its aspect and deformed its beauties? 
No; it is an object of still greater interest that attracts 
their eager gaze; it is that single soul, more valuable 
in itself than all that earth posseses of beauty and of 
grandeur, which causes them to stoop from their exalt- 
ed thrones in fixed attention. That soul repents; it 



ODE TO SPRING. 155 

casts its load of unshared misery — the intolerable 
burden of unpardoned sin, at the foot of the cross; it 
receives the promised rest; immediately there is joy 
in the celestial courts; a new emotion of delight per- 
vades the bosoms of the heavenly host, from the low- 
est scale of angelic being to Gabriel who standeth in 
the presence of God. What then must be the value 
of that soul whose progress can attract the scrutiny of 
angels; whose safety can create a jubilee in heaven! 

Crriffin. 



ODE TO SPRING, 

No longer hoary Winter reigns, 

No longer binds the streams in chains, 

Or heaps with snow the meads; 
Arrayed with robe of rainbow-dye. 
At last the Spring appears on high, 
And smiling over earth and sky. 

Her new creation leads. 
The snows confess a warmer ray, 
The loosened streamlet loves to stray, 

And echo down the dale; 
The hills uplift their summits green. 
The vales more verdant spread between. 
The cuckoo in the wood unseen. 

Cooes ceaseless to the gale. 
The rainbow arching wooes the eye 
With all the colors of the sky, 

With all the pride of Spring ; 
Now Heaven descends in sunny showers, 
The sudden fields put on their flowers, 



156 LITTLE THINGS. 

The green leaves wave upon the bowers, 

And birds begin to sing. 
The cattle wander in the wood, 
And find the wonted verdant food 

Beside the well-known rills; 
Blythe in sun the shepherd swain 
Like Pan attunes the pastoral strain, 
While many echoes send again 

The music of the hills. 
Maria, come ! now let us rove, 
Now gather garlands in the grove, 

Of every new-sprung flower: 
We'll hear the warblings of the wood, 
We'll trace the windings of the flood: 
O come, thou, — fairer than the bud 

Unfolding in a shower! Logan, 



THE IMPORTANCE OF LITTLE THINGS. 

It is a great point of wisdom to know how to esti- 
mate little things. Of those which are evidently great, 
every one can see the importance; but true wisdom 
looks at these great objects before they have arrived 
at their full size. She considers, that it is principally 
in this earlier state that they come under the power 
of man, and can be arranged, modified, increased, or 
extinguished at his pleasure; whereas, in a more ad- 
vanced stage, they set at defiance all his efforts. 

Behold a conflagration! With what dreadful fury it 
rages! The largest houses are devoured by it in a 
moment! The strongest fall victims to its uncon- 
trollable power! Yet this fire, which now resists the 



LITTLE THINGS. 157 

united wisdom and power of man, originated from a 
small spark, and might at first have been extinguished 
by a child. 

Look at yonder tree, which is now so firmly rooted 
in the earth, which rears its lofty head so high, and 
bears its flourishing honors so thick upon it! It was 
once a small seed — it was then a tender plant, so slen- 
der and so weak, that the foot of accident might have 
crushed it, the overshadowing of a weed might have 
suffocated it, or the hand of negligence or wantonness 
have torn it up. Thus does nature point out to us the 
' growth of the strongest things from weak and almost 
imperceptible beginnings. 

Behold also the traveller ! He is at a long distance 
from the end of his journey. A step seems to be of 
no consequence to him. For what is a step, com- 
pared with the many miles which he has to travel? 
But it is by these successive steps he is carried on, 
till at last he arrives at his desired home. Mountains, 
valleys, and plains, the prospect of which even fa- 
tigues the eye, are all at length surmounted by the 
constant application of those little steps which appear 
at first to bear no proportion to the immeasurable dis- 
tance. 

Such a stress does the established order of nature 
teach us to lay upon little things. And if we look 
into th€ moral world, we shall find that they are not 
there to be considered as of less importance. Be- 
hold an abandoned outcast from civil society — the vic- 
tim of public justice, who is about to receive the igno- 
minious punishment due to his crimes! You survey 
with astonishment and terror his vices; you are shock- 
ed while you consider his daring profligacy, his furious 
passions, his hardness of heart, and his universal de- 

14 



158 INSTRUCTION FROM ANIMALS. 

pravity. Would you know by what means he arrived 
at such a dreadful distinction in sin? It was one little 
step taken after another, which brought him to this 
awful consummation! Venn. 



INSTRUCTION FROM ANIMALS. 

The daily labors of the bee 

Awake my soul to industry. 

Who can observe the careful ant, 

And not provide for future want? 

My dog, the trustiest of his kind, 

With gratitude inflames my mind! 

I mark his true, his faithful way, 

And in my service copy Tray. 

In constancy and nuptial love, 

I learn my duty from the dove; 

The hen, who from the chilly air 

With pious wing protects her care; 

And every fowl that flies at large. 

Instructs me in a parent's charge. 

From Nature, too, I take my rule, 

To shun contempt and ridicule. 

My tongue within my lips I rein. 

For who talks much must talk in vain. 

Nor would I, with felonious flight, 

By stealth invade my neighbor's right. 

Rapacious animals we hate : 

Kites, hawks, and wolves deserve their fate. 

Do not we just abhorrence find 

Against the toad and serpent kind? 

But envy, calumny, and spite, 



MAN'S HIGHEST INTEREST. 159 

Bear stronger venom in their bite. 

Thus every object of creation 

Can furnish hints to contemplation: 

And from the most minute and mean, 

A virtuous mind can morals glean. Gray, 



MAN'S HIGHEST INTEREST. 

I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surround- 
ed every way by an immense unknown expansion. — 
Where am I ? What sort of place do I inhabit ? Is it 
exactly accommodated, in every instance, to my con- 
venience? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to 
offend me ? Am I never annoyed by animals, either 
of my own kind or a different? Is every thing subser- 
vient to me, as though I had ordered all myself? No, 
nothing like it — the farthest from it possible. The 
world appears not, then, originally made for the pri- 
vate convenience of me alone ? It does not. But is 
it not possible so to accommodate it, by my own par- 
ticular industry ? If to accommodate man and beast, 
heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not pos- 
sible. What consequence, then, follows? Or can 
there be any other than this? If I seek an interest 
of my own, detached from that of others, I seek an 
interest which is chimerical, and can never have exist- 
ence. 

How then must I determine ? Have I no interest 
at all? If I have not, I am a fool for staying here: 
'T is a smoky house, and the sooner out of it the bet- 
ter. But why no interest? Can I be contented with 
none but one separated and detached? Is a social 



160 MAN'S HIGHEST INTEREST. 

interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not 
to be admitted? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes 
of herding animals, are enough to convince me that 
the thing is, somewhere, at least, possible. How then 
am I assured that it is not equally true of man.^ Ad- 
mit it, and what follows ? If so, then honor and just- 
ice are my interest; then the whole train of moral 
virtues are my interest; without some portion of which, 
not even thieves can maintain society. 

But farther still— I stop not here — I pursue this 
social interest as far as I can trace my several rela- 
tions. I pass from my own stock, my own neighbor- 
hood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, 
as dispersed throughout the earth. Am I not related 
to them all, by the mutual aids of commerce, by the 
general intercourse of arts and letters, by that com- 
mon nature of which we all participate } 

Again — I must have food and clothing. Without a 
proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not 
related, in this view, to the very earth itself? To the 
distant sun, from whose beams I derive vigor? To 
that stupendous course and order of the infinite host 
of heaven, by which the times and seasons ever uni- 
formly pass on? Were this order once confounded, 
I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely 
do I depend on this common, general welfare. What 
then have I to do but to enlarge virtue into piety! 
Not only honor and justice, and what I owe to man, 
are my interest: But gratitude also, acquiescence, 
resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great 
polity, and its great Governor, our common Parent. 

Harris . 



THE CASTLE BUILDER. 161 



THE CASTLE-BUILDER, 

It happened on a summer's day, 
A country lass, as fresh as May, 
Decked in a wholesome russet gown, 
Was going to the market-town; 
So blithe her looks, so simply clean. 
You 'd take her for a May-day queen: 
Though for her garland, says the tale, 
Her head sustained a loaded pail. 
As on her way she passed along. 
She hummed the fragments of a song; 
She did not hum for want of thought — 
Quite pleased with what to sale she brought. 
She reckoned, by her own account. 
When all was sold, the whole amount. 
Thus she — ' In time this little ware 
May turn to great account, with care: 
My milk being sold for — so and so, 
I '11 buy some eggs as markets go, 
And set them; — at the time I fix, 
These eggs will bring as many chicks ; 
I '11 spare no pains to feed them well; 
They '11 bring vast profit when they sell. 
With this I '11 buy a little pig. 
And when 't is grown up fat and big, 
I '11 sell it, whether boar or sow. 
And with the money buy a cow: 
This cow will surely have a calf, 
And there the profit 's half in half ; 
Besides, there 's butter, milk, and cheese, 
To keep the market when I please: 
All which I '11 sell, and buy a farm, 
14* 



162 EXCUSES FOR PROFANENESS. 

Then shall of sweethearts have a swarm. 
Oh! then for ribands, gloves, and rings! 
Ay ! more than twenty pretty things — 
One brings me this, another that, 
And I shall have — I know not what!' 
Fired with the thought, the sanguine lass, 
Of what was thus to come to pass. 
Her heart beat strong; she gave a bound, 
And down came milk-pail on the ground: 
EggSj fowls, pig, hog, (ah, well-a-day!) 
Cow, calf, and farm — all swam away! 

La Fontaine, 



EXCUSES FOR PROFANENESS. 

What possible advantage can arise from the use of 
profane language ? Does it add dignity to the character ? 
Does it conciliate the respect and affections of others ? 
Does it excite a greater confidence in him who uses 
it? Does it indicate refinement of manners, nobleness 
of principle, purity of feeling, elevation of thought? 

No; its sure consequences are the loss of respect 
and confidence, from those whose confidence and re- 
spect are most desirable; the disgust and contempt of 
all correct and well-governed minds ; and the compas- 
sion and sorrow of every pious heart. It is a vice so 
rude and mean, that none but the most depraved can 
applaud it; its coarseness and vulgarity render it of^ 
fensive to a delicate or elevated mind; and its absur- 
dity would even make it ridiculous, did not its wick- 
edness render it frightful. 

What, then, is the temptation which allures men to 
it? In other cases, men become vicious by giving 



EXCUSES FOR PROFANENESS. 163 

way to strong propensities of nature which they ought 
to have subdued, by indulging some passions which 
they should have restrained, by the prospect of great 
worldly advantage, or the powerful solicitations of 
others. But nothing of these can tempt to profane- 
ness. No craving of nature is gratified; no furious 
passion attains its object; no worldly interest is ad- 
vanced. There is no one vice which seems so per- 
fectly without object, and without temptation. 

What, then, are the excuses which men urge to 
themselves or others, in justification of their profane- 
ness? Some employ oaths and curses as ornaments 
of expression, and fancy they give elegance and grace 
to conversation. There are those who fancy that 
profaneness will give an air of fashionable folly to their 
manners; and there are others who can even regard it 
as the evidence of a noble and courageous independ- 
ence of spirit. But the most common apology which 
men urge for profaneness is, that they mean nothing 
by it, and therefore it is innocent. 

How hollow and trifling are these excuses! For can 
it be innocent to call on the name of God without object 
and without meaning ? Can it be harmless to invoke him 
as a witness to what is trifling, or what is false? Can 
it be innocent to call in levity for his judgment on our 
own heads, or to imprecate it on those around you.^ 
Yet, these are all the excuses which can be urged to 
extenuate the crime of treating with ungrateful con- 
tempt that Being, on whom all every moment depend, 
and from whom our life and every blessing is derived — 
of treating with careless levity or insulting freedom, 
that mighty God before whom angels and archangels 
veil their faces in the greatest humility. 

Rev. J. E. Mbot 



164 DIALOGUE ON DANCING. 



TO THE RAINBOW. 

Loveliest of the meteor train, 
Girdle of the summer-rain, 
Tinger of the dews of air, 
Glowing vision fleet as fair, 
While the evening shower retires. 
Kindle thy unhurting fires, 
And among the meadows near. 
Thy refulgent pillow rear; 
Or amid the dark blue cloud, 
High thine orbed glories shroud; 
Or the moistened hills between, 
Bent in mighty arch be seen. 
Through whose sparkling portals wide 
Fiends of storm and darkness ride. 

Like cheerfulness thou 'rt wont to gaze 

Always on the brightest blaze, 

Canst from setting suns deduce 

Varied gleams and sprightly hues; 

And on lowering gloom imprint 

Smiling streaks of gayest tint. Anthology, 



DIALOGUE ON DANCING. 

Henry, Tom, when are you going to begin your 
dancing ? you will be so old in a short time as to be 
ashamed to be seen taking your five positions. 

Thomas. I don't know as I shall begin at all. 
Father says he don't care a fig whether I learn to 



DIALOGUE ON DANCING. 165 

jump any better than I do now; and as I am to be a 
tradesman, he is determined, at present, to keep me 
at the reading and writing schools. 

Hen. That must be very dull and dry for you. 
And what good will all such learning do you, so long 
as you make the awkward appearance you do at 
present? I am surprised at your father's folly. So, 
because you are to be a tradesman, you are not to 
learn the graces! I expect to learn a trade too. But 
my papa says I shall first learn the dancing trade; 
and then, if I never learn any other, I shall make my 
way through the world well enough. 

Thorn. I don't know which discovers the most 
folly, your father or mine. Old folks certainly know 
more than young ones; and my father is much the 
older man. 

Hen. I don't believe that doctrine. There 's Jack 
Upstart knows more than his father and mother both. 
And he is but nineteen yet. And he says the pres- 
ent generation under five and twenty years of age, 
knows more than fifteen generations that have gone 
before us. 

Thorn. I don't know how that is. But father early 
taught me this proverb, ' Young folks think old folks 
are fools; but old folks know young ones to be so.' 
But to return to schools. Pray how far have you 
gone in your arithmetic? 

Hen. Arithmetic ! I have not begun that yet ; nor 
shall I till I have completed dancing. That is a dry 
study; I know I shall never like it. 

Thorn. Writing I suppose you are fond of. 

Hen. I can't say I am, Thomas. I once had a 
tolerable fondness for it. But since I began dancing, 
I have held it in utter contempt. It may be well 



166 DIALOGUE ON DANCING. 

enough for a person to write a legible hand ; but it is 
no mark of a gentleman to write elegantly. 

Thorn. You would have a gentleman spell well I 
suppose. 

Hen. I would have him spell so well as to be un- 
derstood; and that is enough for any man. 

Thorn, What say you to grammar and geography? 

Hen. Don't name them I entreat you. There is 
' nothing I so much abhor, as to hear your learned 
schoolboys jabbering over their nouns, their pro- 
nouns, their Ti^erbs, their parables, their congrega- 
tions, their imperfections, and confluctions. I '11 tell 
you what, Thomas, I had rather be master of one 
hornpipe, than to understand all the grammars which 
have been published since the art of printing was 
discovered. 

Thorn. I am sorry, friend Henry, to hear you 
speak so contemptuously of the solid sciences. I 
hope you don't mean to neglect them entirely. If you 
do, you must expect to live in poverty; and die, the 
scorn and derision of all wise men. 

Hen. Never fear that, Thomas. I shall take care 
of myself, I warrant you. You are much mistaken in 
your prognostications. Why there 's Tim Fiddlefad- 
dle — he can't even write his name; and as for read- 
ing, he scarcely knows B from a broomstick; and yet 
he can dance a minuet with any master of the art in 
Christendom. And the ladies all love him dearly. 
He is invited to their balls, routs, assemblies, card- 
parties, &c. &c. and he diverts them like any mon- 
key. 

Thorn. And does he expect it will be the same 
through life ? How is he to be maintained when he 
becomes old ? and how is he to amuse himself after he 



DIALOGUE ON DANCING. 167 

is unable to dance; as you say he can neither read 
nor write? 

Hen. Why, in fact, I never thought of these things 
before. I confess there appears to be some weight in 
these queries. I don't know but it will be best for me 
to spare a day or two in a week from my dancing, to 
attend to the branches you are pursuing. 

Thorn. You will make but little progress in that 
way. My master always told me that the solid sci- 
ences ought to be secured first. He says, when his 
scholars have once entered the dancing school, their 
heads, in general, are so full of balls, assemblies, 
minuets, and cotillons, that he never can find much 
room for any thing else. 

Hen. I will still maintain it, notwithstanding all 
you can say in favor of your solid sciences, as you 
call them, that the art of dancing is the art of all arts. 
It will, of itself, carry a man to the very pinnacle of 
fame. Whereas, without it, all your writing, arith- 
metic, grammar, and geography, will not raise one 
above the common level of a clown. 

Thorn. There are so many pursuits that are very 
useful, that if we were disposed to improve our time 
to the best advantage, I think we could employ it much 
better than in learning to dance. We will suppose, 
for instance, that you learn the trade of a carpenter; 
I would ask you if it would not be necessary to under- 
stand figures, so that you might be able to keep your 
own accounts; and so much geometry as to be able to 
measure heights and distances, superficies and solids.'^ 
Would it not be very convenient to know a little of 
history, in order to acquaint yourself with the various 
orders of architecture, and where they had their 
origin.^ If you were shown a picture of St. Peter^s 



168 INVOCATION TO MAY. 

Church, or a plan of Grand Cairo, would you not 
like to know enough of geography to tell in what 
part of the world they are situated? 

Hen. These are subjects which cousin Tim says 
never are agitated in the fashionable circles which he 
visits. And so I bid you good-by. 



INVOCATION TO MAY. 

Come, fairest nymph! resume thy reign, 
Bring all the graces in thy train; 
With balmy breath, and flowery tread 
Rise from thy soft ambrosial bed, 
Where, in Elysian slumber bound. 
Embowering myrtles veil thee round. 

Awake in all thy glories drest, 
Recall the zephyrs from the west; 
Restore the sun, revive the skies, 
At mine and Nature's call, arise! 
Great Nature's self upbraids thy stay, 
And misses her accustomed May. 

See! all her works demand thy aid. 
The labors of Pomona fade; 
A plaint is heard from every tree; 
Each budding flow'ret calls for thee, 
The birds forget to love and sing. 
With storms alone the forests ring. 

Come, then, with pleasure at thy side, 
Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide; 



CONVERSION OF ST. PAUL. 169 

Create, where'er thou turn'st thine eye, 
Peace, plenty, love, and harmony. 
Till every being share its part, 
And heaven and earth be glad at heart. 

West 



THE CONVERSION OF ST, PAUL. 

Could Paul by possibility have been a deceiver? 
St. Paul a deceiver! At the bare suggestion of such 
a possibility, a sensation of horror thrills through every 
generous bosom. St. Paul be an impostor, who is 
true? Where is the confidence of friendship, where 
the delightful trust of parental and filial affection? 
Where is the truth of history, and where those sooth- 
ing or spirit-stirring associations which tradition hangs 
around spots consecrated to memory? 

But it is not the heart alone that revolts at the sug- 
gestion. Reason, insulted by the supposition, invokes 
all her powers to demonstrate its absurdity. Look at 
the writings of the illustrious apostle. Mark the 
system of pure morality, of sublime devotion, por- 
trayed by his matchless pen. Did ever an impostor 
write as he wrote? Could the polluted and groveling 
mind of a degraded hypocrite have soared so high? 
And if it could, would his moral taste have selected 
those pure and rigid and lofty conceptions of duty, and 
bodied them forth as the uncompromising standard of 
practice for his associates and himself? 

Saul of Tarsus had nothing to gain by an hypocriti- 
cal profession of the new religion. I was wrong! He 
was to gain poverty — and reproach — and stripes — and 

15 



170 CONTENT. 

imprisonment — and a felon's death. All this he had 
seen exemplified in the life and death of his master; 
and he well knew that his master had predicted that 
all this should be the inheritance, and the only earthly 
inheritance, of his apostles. Barren temptations these 
to a life of hypocrisy and deceit. 

Is it a thing to be desired, to incur reproach and 
infamy? Is it an object of ambition to be steeped in 
poverty to the very lips? Is persecution dear ? Is 
danger sweet? The scourge, the dungeon, and the 
torture, are they to be coveted? Is that cross the 
throne to which aspiring selfishness would fain ascend ? 
Is that bed of fire the couch on which luxurious self- 
love^ would seek repose? 

But it may be said the apostle's object was posthu- 
mous fame. I know that posthumous fame is dear to 
the human heart. We love to cast forward the eye of 
anticipation, and fondly brood over the soothing thought 
that we may live and be cherished in the memory of 
posterity, in spite of the triumph of death and the 
devastation of the worm. But no one would love the 
reproach of posterity; no one would court, by a life 
of hypocrisy and deceit, its sure result, posthumous 
execration. Griffin, 



CONTENT. 



How clad with smiles the vernal morn! 
How gay the bloom-bespangled thorn! 
The lark is up, the welkin rings. 
And with his flock the shepherd sings. 
O let my days with his be spent, 



THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE. 171 

In rural shades with mild Content! 
The blackbird warbles on the bough, 
The milkmaid sings beneath her cow; 
The mower, up with early dawn, 
Prepares to fleece the clovered lawn; 
The farmer views the blooming wheat, 
And starts the lev 'ret from her seat; 
Whilst I this lonely vale frequent, 
To muse the praises of Content. 
Pleased with my little flock of sheep 
That on my native downs I keep. 
Mine are the joys of peace and health, 
And sure I want no greater wealth: 
No vain desires my soul infest, 
Nor dwells ambition in my breast: 
Heaven, all such follies to prevent, 
Formed all my thoughts to soft Content. 

WilliaTris. 



THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE. 

Supposing the whole body of the earth were a great 
ball or mass of the finest sand, and that a single grain 
or particle of this sand should be annihilated every 
thousand years? — Supposing, then, that you had it in 
your choice to be happy all the while this prodigious 
mass of sand was consuming, by this slow method, 
until there was not a grain left, on condition that you 
were to be miserable for ever after? Or, suppos- 
ing that you might be happy for ever after, on con- 
dition you would be miserable until the whole mass 
of sand were thus annihilated, at the rate of one sand 



172 THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE. 

ia a thousand years; which of these two cases would 
you make your choice ? 

It must be confessed in this case, so many thou- 
sands of years are to the imagination as a kind of 
eternity, though in reahty, they do not bear so great 
a proportion to that duration which is to follow them, 
as an unit does to the greatest number which you can 
put together in figures, or as one of those sands to the 
supposed heap. Reason therefore tells us, without 
any manner of hesitation, which would be the better 
part in this choice. 

But when the choice we have actually before us is 
this — Whether we will choose to be happy for the 
space of only three score and ten, nay, perhaps of only 
twenty or ten years, I might say for only a day or an 
hour, and miserable to all eternity: or, on the con- 
trary, miserable for this short term of years, and happy 
for a whole eternity — what words are sufficient to 
express that folly and want of consideration, which, in 
such case, makes a wrong choice! 

I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing 
what seldom happens, that a course of virtue makes us 
miserable in this life: But if we suppose, as it gen- 
erally happens, that virtue would make us more happy, 
even in this life, than a contrary course of vice, how 
can we sufficiently admire the stupidity or madness 
of those persons who are capable of making so absurd 
a choice } 

Every wise man, therefore, will consider this life 
only as it may conduce to the happiness of the other, 
and cheerfully sacrifice the pleasure of a few years, to 
those of an eternity. 



THE TWO GARDENERS. 173 



THE TWO GARDENERS. 

Two gardeners once beneath an oak, 
Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke — 
' You must confess, dear Will, that Nature 
Is but a blund'ring kind of creature; 
And I — nay, why that look of terror? 
Could teach her how to mend her error.' 
' Your talk, ' quoth Will, ' is bold and odd. 
What you call Nature, I call God.' 
' Well, call him by what name you will,' 
Quoth Jack, ' he manages but ill ; 
Nay, from the very tree we 're under, 
I '11 prove that Providence can blunder.' 
Quoth Will, ' Through thick and thin you dash, 
I shudder. Jack, at words so rash; 
I trust to what the Scriptures tell, 
He hath done always all things well.' 
Quoth Jack, * I 'm lately grown a wit, 
And think all good a lucky hit. 
To prove that Providence can err, 
Not words, but facts, the truth aver. 
To this vast oak lift up thine eyes. 
Then view that acorn's paltry size; 
How foolish on a tree so tall, 
To place that tiny cup and ball. 
Now look again, yon pompion see, 
It weighs two pounds at least, nay three; 
Yet this large fruit, where is it found? 
Why, meanly trailing on the ground. 
Had Providence asked my advice, 
I would have changed it in a trice ; 
I would have said at Nature's birth, 
15^ 



174 THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 

Let acorns creep upon the earth ; 
But let the pompion, vast and round, 
On the oak's lofty boughs be found.' 
He said — and as he rashly spoke, 
Lo! from the branches of the oak, 
A wind, which suddenly arose, 
Beat showers of acorns on his nose; 
'Oh! oh!' quoth Jack, ' I 'm wrong I see, 
And God is wiser far than me. 
For did a shower of pompions large. 
Thus on my naked face discharge, 
I had been bruised and blinded quite; 
What Heaven appoints I find is right. 
Whene'er I 'm tempted to rebel, 
I '11 think how light the acorns fell ; 
Whereas on oaks had pompions hung, 
My broken skull had stopped my tongue.' 

H. More, 



THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 

Behold the humble habitation of the poor, where 
the scanty supply, procured by labor, is interrupted by 
disease. The father, laid upon his bed of straw, des- 
ponding and heart-broken; the mother, wiping the 
tears silently away, while attending at his side; the 
children, in want of clothing and of bread; and this, 
within sight of some opulent mansion, whose inmates 
squander in dissipation, what would give them comfort 
and support. Observe the entrance of some benevo- 
lent visiter, who speaks to them in language of kind- 
ness, directs their trust in Providence, leads them to 



THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 175 

use the prayer of resignation and of faith, and gives 
them the means of alleviating their misery, until he 
comes again; and say whether it is not better to go to 
the house of mourning, than to the house of feasting. 

Or enter, in imagination, the apartment of the 
widow, who mourns the loss of him that was her only 
earthly comforter. See her bitter tears, hear her 
lamentations, and learn to feel for human wretched- 
ness and v/o. Deprived at once of her chief blessing, 
earth seems to her, to possess no charm; existence, no 
attraction. Now she sits abstracted and insensible, 
as if grief lay too heavy on her breast to allow of 
utterance. Anon, she raves in all the wild extrava- 
gance of sorrow, calling upon him, who can no longer 
answer — addressing the tenderest language to him, 
who can no longer hear. Her companions look on 
and weep; while one, from time to time, soothes her 
with the voice of gentle sympathy, and elevates her 
thoughts to that only theme of genuine consolation, 
the promise of the Christian's hope. Who, that wit- 
nesses a scene like this, can doubt whether it is better 
to go to the house of mourning, than to the house of 
mirth ! 

Let us spend our hours of leisure, in administering 
to the wants of the suffering and the destitute — in 
visiting the widows and fatherless in their affliction — 
in observing how the influence of real piety strength- 
ens mankind, to bear, with holy resignation, all the 
miseries of life, and all the pains of dissolution — and 
in a generous sympathy with the wants and woes of 
our fellow mortals. Thus did the philanthropic How- 
ard spend his time ! 

Most truly did he believe, that the house of mourn- 
ing was better than the house of feasting, and most 



176 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 

ardently did he devote his time, his fortune, and his 
hfe, to the exemphfication of the principle. Neither 
the gloom of the dungeon, nor the perils of the ocean 
— neither the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor 
the sickness that destroyeth in the noon-day, could 
deter him from the single object of his heart's desire 
— the alleviation of human misery. And he stands 
alone, amidst the vanity of learning, the pride of 
conquerors, and the pomp of kings — ^the single indi- 
vidual to whose praise the whole world has responded, 
in deep and undissembled homage to the virtue of 
Christian benevolence. Hopkins. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 

I SEE thy power, eternal God! 
Engraved upon the dark blue sky; 
The trees that on the mountains nod, 
Thy name in whispers sigh. 
The sun that rolls through burning space. 
Shines to illume thy temple's dome; 
In all thy varied works I trace 
Marks of thy secret home. 

Thy dwelling is yon distant star 
That burns with scarce perceptive ray; 
The comet is thy flaming car. 
Careering on its way. 
I view thee in the splendid arch, 
That shines upon the summer cloud; 
I hear the footsteps of thy march 
In the storm thunder loud. 



AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 177 

The lightning is thine eye's deep glance. 

That looks upon the world below; 

And when the northern streamers dance, 

Thine is the lustrous glow. 

The flaming night-arch shows thy skill; 

Thy breath impels the tempest's roar; 

And as I learn thy potent will, 

I tremble and adore. 

God! thou art every where! I see 
Thy beauty in the deep-hued flower; 
Thy strength is shown mysteriously 
In the dread earthquake's power. 
I view thy varied hand in waves, 
That gentle kiss the pebbled shore; 
Or rolling o'er their ocean graves. 
In wrathful anguish roar. 

The dark green pines that feel the breeze, 

Talk of thee to the forest rill; 

And mighty torrents when they freeze, 

Display thy wisdom still. 

The birds that raise the morning hymn, 

Feel, as they chant, an impulse proud; 

They catch the fire of seraphim. 

And speak of thee aloud. 

All nature has a living voice. 
Thy wisdom and thy praise to show, 
And as I hear thy works rejoice, 
I feel thy spirit glow. 
But most thy goodness I admire. 
When I behold the sacred plan. 
That formed the soul of vital fire. 
And bade it live in man. 



178 PHILANTHROPY. 

Teach me, Oh God! thy truth to know, 

To see how vast thy wisdom flows; 

Thy mercy to my spirit show, 

And bid my soul repose. 

Illume the spark thy hand has drawn 

From the deep realm where spirits stray, 

And let it greet the kindling dawn 

Of Heaven's immortal day. Leivis. 



TRUE AND FALSE PHILANTHROPY. 

Fantom. I despise a narrow field. O for the reign 
of universal benevolence I I want to make all mankind 
good and happy. 

Trueman. Dear me! sure that must be a wholesale 
sort of a job: had not you better try your hand at a 
town or a parish first? 

Fan. Sir, I have a plan in my head for relieving 
the miseries of the whole world. Every thing is bad 
as it now stands. I would alter all the laws, and do 
away all the religions, and put an end to all the wars 
in the world. I would put an end to all punishments; 
I would not leave a single prisoner on the face of 
the globe. This is what I call doing things on a grand 
scale. 

True. A scale with a vengeance! As to releasing 
the prisoners, however, I do not so much like that, as 
it would be liberating a few rogues at the expense of 
all honest men; but as to the rest of your plan, if all 
Christian countries would be so good as to turn Christ- 
ians, it might be helped on a good deal. There would 
be vStill misery enough left indeed; because God 



PHILANTHROPY. I79 

intended this world should be earth and not heaven. 
But, sir, among all your abolitions, you must aboHsh 
human corruption before you can make the world 
quite as perfect as you pretend. 

Fan. Your project would rivet the chains which 
mine is designed to break. 

Irue. Sir, I have no projects. Projects are in 
general the offspring of restlessness, vanity and idle- 
ness. I am too busy for projects, too contented for 
theories, and, I hope, have too much honesty and 
humility for a philosopher. The utmost extent of my 
ambition at present is, to redress the wrongs of a 
parish apprentice, who has been cruelly used by his 
master: indeed I have another little scheme, which 
is to prosecute a fellow in our street who has suffered 
a poor wretch in a workhouse, of which he had the 
care, to perish through neglect, and you must assist 
me. 

Fan. The parish must do that. You must not 
apply to me for the redress of such petty grievances. 
I own that the wrongs of the Poles and South Ameri- 
cans so fill my mind, as to leave me no time to at- 
tend to the petty sorrows of workhouses and parish 
apprentices. It is provinces, empires, continents, 
that the benevolence of the philosopher embraces; 
every one can do a little paltry good to his next 
neighbor. 

Trtbe. Every one can, but I do not see that every 
one does. If they would, indeed, your business would 
be ready done to your hands, and your grand ocean 
of benevolence would be filled with the drops which 
private charity would throw into it. I am glad, how- 
ever, you are such a friend to the prisoners, because 
I am just now getting a little subscription from our 



180 PHILANTHROPY. 

club, to set free your poor old friend Tom Saunders, 
a very honest brother tradesman, who got first into 
debt, and then into jail, though no fault of his own, but 
merely through the pressure of the times. We have 
each of us allowed a trifle every week towards main- 
taining Tom's young family since he has been in 
prison; but we think we shall do much more service 
to Saunders, and indeed in the end lighten our own 
expense, by paying down at once a little sum to 
restore to him the comforts of life, and put him in a 
way of maintaining his family again. We have made 
up the money all except five guineas; I am already 
promised four, and you have nothing to do but give 
me the fifth. And so for a single guinea, without any 
of the trouble, the meetings, and the looking into his 
affairs, which we have had; which, let me tell you, is 
the best, and to a man of business the dearest part of 
charity, you will at once have the pleasure (and it is 
no small one) of helping to save a worthy family from 
starving, of redeeming an old friend from jail, and 
of putting a little of your boasted benevolence into 
action. Realize! master Fantom: there is nothing 
like realizing. 

Fan. Why, hark ye, Mr. Trueman, do not think 
I value a guinea; no sir, I despise money; it is trash, 
it is dirt, and beneath the regard of the wise man. It 
is one of the unfeeling inventions of artificial soci-^ 
ety. Sir, I could talk to you for half a day on the 
abuse of riches, and on my own contempt of money. 

True. O pray do not give yourself the trouble; it 
will be an easier way by half of vindicating yourself 
from one, and of proving the other, just to put your 
hand in your pocket, and give me a guinea, without 
saying a word about it: and then to you who value 



PHILANTHROPY. 181 

time so much, and money so little, it will cut the 
matter short. But come now (for I see you will give 
nothing) I should be mighty glad to know what is the 
sort of good you do yourselves, since you always 
object to what is done by others. 

Fan. Sir, the object of a true philosopher is to 
diffuse light and knowledge. I wish to see the whole 
world enlightened. 

True. Well, Mr. Fantom, you are a wonderful 
man to keep up such a stock of benevolence at so small 
an expense. To love mankind so dearly, and yet 
avoid all opportunities of doing them good; to have 
such a noble zeal for the millions, and to feel so little 
compassion for the units; to long to free empires and 
enlighten kingdoms; and yet deny instruction to your 
own village, and comfort to your own family. Surely 
none but a philosopher could indulge so much philan- 
thropy and so much frugality at the same time. But 
come, do assist me in a partition I am making in our 
poorhouse, between the old, whom I want to have 
better fed, and the young, whom I want to have more 
worked. 

Fan. Sir, my mind is so engrossed with the parti- 
tion of Poland, that I cannot bring it down to an 
object of such insignificance. I despise the man 
whose benevolence is swallowed up in the narrow 
concerns of his own family, or parish, or country. 

True. Well, now I have a notion that it is as well 
to do one's own duty, as the duty of another man; 
and that to do good at home, is as well as to do good 
abroad. For my part I had as lieve help Tom Saun- 
ders to freedom, as a Pole or a South American, 
though I should be very glad to help them too. But 
one must begin to love somewhere, and to do good 

16 



182 THE PARTED SPIRIT. i 

somewhere; and I think it is as natural to love one's 
own family, and to do good in one's own neighbor- 
hood, as to any body else. And if every man in 
every family, parish, and county did the same, why 
then all the schemes would meet, and the end of one 
parish, where I was doing good, would be the begin- 
ning of another parish where somebody else was doing 
good; so my schemes would jut into my neighbor's; 
his projects would unite with those of some other local 
reformer; and all would fit with a sort of dovetail 
exactness. 

Fan, Sir, a man of large views will be on the 
watch for great occasions to prove his benevolence. 

True, Yes, sir; but if they are so distant that 
they cannot reach them, or so vast that he cannot 
grasp them, he may let a thousand little, snug, kind, 
good actions slip through his fingers in the meanwhile: 
and so between the great things that he cannot doy 
and the little ones that he will not do, life passes and 
nothing will be done. 



THE PARTED SPIRIT. 

Mysterious in its birth. 
And viewless as the blast. 

Where hath the Spirit fled from earth- 
Forever past.'* 

I ask the grave below — 
It keeps the secret well: — 

I call upon the heavens to show — 
They will not tell. 



MODERATION AND PASSION. ]83 

Of earth's remotest strand 

Are tales and tidings known; 
But, from the Spirit's distant land 

Returneth none. , 

Winds waft the breath of flowers 

To wanderers o'er the wave, 
That bear no message from the bowers 

Beyond the grave. 

Proud Science scales the skies — 

From star to star doth roam; 
But reacheth not the shore where lies 

The Spirit's home. 

Impervious shadows hide 

This mystery of heaven: — 
But where all knowledge is denied, 

To hope is given. 



MODERATION AND PASSION. 

I BELIEVE the fiercest advocates of moderation will 
readily allow that there are certain cases of overheated 
imagination, which it is impossible to contemplate 
without sentiments of esteem decidedly preponderating 
over those of dislike. When we see, for instance, a 
man fraught with sensibility, mistaking the aspirations 
of his warm heart for the conclusions of sober judg- 
ment, and, carried away by their influence, throwing 
himself upon an impracticable enterprise, we may 
bestow one thought on his too obvious indiscretion; 



184 MODERATION AND PASSION. 

but how soon is it lost sight of in the splendor of his 
virtue ! 

We respect the very dreams of such a man, when, 
giving way to the seducements of fancy, he paints some 
Atalantis or Uutopia, some land of pure delight, 
where love and joy perpetual reign; forgetting that it 
is but the baseless fabric of a vision, too splendid to 
be realized in this vale of vicissitude and wo. We 
admire a philanthropic Howard, spending his life in 
visiting the abodes of wretchedness and despair, 
though, perhaps., not one in a thousand has ever put 
the question, what amelioration he ever succeeded in 
effecting. The mere spectacle of such godlike benefi- 
cence puts to flight every thing like sober calculation, 
and we gladly surrender ourselves to the thrilling 
emotions it excites! 

Man is the child of passion, and acts well only when 
under the influence of high and powerful excitement. 
Calm philosophy is an instructive and pleasing com- 
panion no doubt; but calm philosophy has seldom led 
her votary up the toilsome sleep to his high destina- 
tion. To do this he must feel; he must feel deeply; 
a fire must be kindled in his bosom which many waters 
cannot quench; then shall he achieve what to com- 
mon minds is little short of miracle. This truth is 
exemplified in all the great national revolutions which 
have been witnessed on earth. 

Have ever the shackles of a tyrant been broken by 
abstract reasoning ? Where is the people who have 
redeemed their rights, unless by the exhibition of a 
glorious fanaticism for liberty? It is true, an unen- 
lightened and ill-directed zeal is often the parent of 
most fatal disorders. But who, reasoning from this 
fact, would give his sanction to an unmanly apathy, a 



A MOTHER'S GIFT. 185 

waveless calm, a slumber of the dead? Who does not 
exclaim, ' Better numberless disorders, better a thou- 
sand noble ventures beyond the cold rules of prudence 
and statute technicalities, than that palsy of the soul, 
suffering under which, a whole people can forget that 
they are men, and place their willing necks beneath 
the foot of some domineering despot ? 

M'CUlland, 



A MOTHER'S GIFT. 

Remember, love, who gave thee this, 
When other days shall come, — 

When she who had thine e^arliest kiss 
Sleeps in her narrow home. 

Remember 't was a mother gave 

The gift to one she 'd die to save ! 

That mother sought a pledge of love, 

The holiest for her son; 
And from the gifts of God above, 

She chose a goodly one: — 
She chose for her beloved boy, 
The source of light, and life, and joy. 

And bade him keep the gift, that when 

The parting hour should come. 
They might have hope to meet again. 

In an eternal home. 
She said his faith in this would be 
weet incense to her memory. 
16^ 



186 THE GOODNESS OF GOD. 

And should the scoffer in his pride, 
Laugh that fond faith to scorn, 

And bid him cast the pledge aside, 
That he from youth had borne, 

She bade him pause, and ask his breast 

If she, or he, had loved him best. 

A parenVs blessing on her son 

Goes with this holy thing ; 
The love that would retain the one 

Must to the other cling. 
Remember — 't is no idle toy — 
A Mother's gift — remember, boy! 

Walter Furgerson. 



THE GOODNESS OF GOD. 

The light of nature, the works of creation, the 
general consent of nations, in harmony with divine rev- 
elation, attest the being, the perfections, and the prov- 
idence of God. Whatever cause we have to lament 
the frequent inconsistency of human conduct with this 
belief, yet an avowed atheist is a monster that rarely 
makes his appearance. God's government of the 
affairs of the universe, an acknowledgment of his 
active superintending providence over that portion of 
it which constitutes the globe we inhabit, is rejected, 
at least theoretically, by very few. 

That a superior, invisible power, is continually 
employed in managing and controlling by secret, 
imperceptible, irresistible means, all the transactions 
of the world, is so often manifested in the disappoint- 



REPOSITORIES OF THE DEAD. 187 

ment, as well as in the success of our plans, that blind 
and depraved must our minds be to deny what every 
day's transactions so fully prove. The excellence of 
the divine character, especially in the exercise of that 
goodness towards his creatures which is seen in the 
dispensation of their daily benefits, and in overruling 
occurring events to the increase of their happiness, is 
equally obvious. 

Do we desire evidence of these things? Who is 
without them in the experience of his own life ? Who 
has not reason to thank God for the success which 
has attended his exertions in the world ? Who has not 
reason to thank him for defeating plans, the accom- 
plishment of which, it has been afterwards seen, would 
have resulted in injury or ruin? Who has not cause 
to present him the unaffected homage of a grateful 
heart for the consequences of events apparently the 
most unpropitious, and for his unquestionable kindness 
in the daily supply of needful mercies? Milnor, 



THE REPOSITORIES OF THE DEAD* 

It is to the living mourner — to the parent, weeping 
over his dear dead child — to the husband, dwelling in 
his own solitary desolation — to the widow, whose heart 
is broken by untimely sorrow — to the friend, who mis- 
ses at every turn the presence of some kindred spirit 
— It is to these, that the repositories of the dead bring 
home thoughts full of admonition, of instruction, and, 
slowly but surely, of consolation also. They admonish 
us, by their very silence, of our own frail and transi- 
tory being. They instruct us in the true value of life. 



188 REPOSITORIES OF THE DEAD. 

and in its noble purposes, its duties, and its destina- 
tion. They spread around us, in the reminiscences of 
the past, sources of pleasing, though melancholy 
reflection. 

We dwell with pious fondness on the characters and 
virtues of the departed; and, as time interposes its 
growing distances between us and them, we gather up, 
with more solicitude, the broken fragments of memory, 
and weave, as it were, into our very hearts, the threads 
of their history. As we sit down by their graves, we 
seem to hear the tones of their affection, whispering 
in our ears. We listen to the voice of their wisdom, 
speaking in the depths of our souls. We shed our 
tears; but they are no longer the bu-rning tears of 
agony. They relieve our drooping spirits, and come 
no longer over us with a deathly faintness. We return 
to the world, and we feel ourselves purer, and better, 
and wiser, from this communion with the dead. 

I have spoken but of feelings and associations com- 
mon to all ages, and all generations of men — to the 
rude and the polished — to the barbarian and the civ- 
ilized — to the bond and the free — to the inhabitant of 
the dreary forests of the north, and the sultry regions 
of the south — to the worshipper of the sun, and the 
worshipper of idols — to the Heathen, dweUing in the 
darkness of his cold mythology, and to the Christian, 
rejoicing in the light of the true God. Every where 
we trace them in the characteristic remains of the 
most distant ages and nations, and as far back as 
human history carries its traditionary outlines. 

If this tender regard for the dead be so absolutely 
universal, and so deeply founded in human affection, 
why is it not made to exert a more profound influence 
on our lives? Why do we not enlist it with more 



SPRING. 189 

persuasive energy in the cause of human improve- 
ment? Why do we not enlarge it as a source of reli- 
gious consolation? Why do we not make it a more 
efficient instrument to elevate Ambition, to stimulate 
Genius, and to dignify Learning? Why do we not 
connect it indissolubly with associations, which charm 
us in Nature and engross us in Art? Why do we 
not dispel from it that unlovely gloom, from which our 
hearts turn as from a darkness, that ensnares, and a 
horror, that appals our thoughts? Story, 



SPRING. 



The Spring — she is a blessed thing! 

She is the mother of the flowers; 
She is the mate of birds and bees, 
The partner of their revelries — 

Our star of hope through wintry hours. 

The merry children, when they see 

Her coming, by the budding thorn. 
They leap upon the cottage floor, 
They shout beside the cottage door, 
And run to meet her night and morn. 

They are soonest with her in the woods, 

Peeping the withered leaves among, 
To find the earliest fragrant thing 
That dares from the cold earth to spring, 
Or catch the earliest wild-bird's song. 

The little brooks run on in light, 
As if they had a chase of mirth; 



190 APPEAL TO THE DUELLIST. 

The skies are blue, the air is balm; 
Our very hearts have caught the charm 
That sheds a beauty o'er the earth. 

The aged man is in the field, 

The maiden 'mong her garden flowers; 
The sons of sorrow and distress 
Are wandering in forgetfulness 

Of wants that fret and care that lowers. 

She comes with more than present good — 

With joys to store for future years, 
From which, in striving crowds apart, 
The bowed in spirit, bruised in heart, 
May glean up hope with grateful tears. 

Up! — let us to the fields away. 

And breathe the fresh and balmy air: 

The bird is building in the tree; 

The flower has opened to the bee, 

And health and love and peace are there. 



AN APPEAL TO THE DUELLIST. 

We will appeal to the duellist himself. Some 
slight and unguarded expression, or some uncourte- 
ous action, which if not noticed by himself, would 
probably have been unheeded by others, fires his 
resentment, and prompts him to demand satisfaction. 
His challenge is accepted, and instead of wreaking 
his vengeance on his opponent he falls himself! — Is it 
possible for human folly to exhibit itself in more glaring 
colors ? The assassin if not less guilty, is certainly 



APPEAL TO THE DUELLIST. 191 

less foolish. He seeks revenge, and obtains it ; 
whereas the duellist pursues his object by means 
which expose himself precisely to the same fate he 
designs for his enemy. 

But we will suppose that the duellist is called to the 
field by an insult of the most aggravated nature; that 
his aim is truth, and that the injury he has sustained 
is avenged in the lifeblood of the offender — and now, 
we would ask him, what is the ^ satisfaction' he has 
received? His character so far as his integrity or 
veracity was implicated, remains unchanged, except 
that it is now stained with blood. He has indeed 
evinced a firmness of nerve, which probably had never 
been questioned, but which however, he possesses in 
common with multitudes of the vilest of his species. 
He has exhibited a physical property, which in itself, 
gives him no claim to the respect or confidence of his 
fellow men. 

He has indeed gratified his revenge. . He has 
deprived his enemy of life, and all its enjoyments — he 
has cut short the period of probation allowed him by 
his Maker, for securing the felicity and avoiding the 
miseries of the eternal world, and so far as man is 
permitted to judge, he has sent his immortal soul to 
those regions where hope never dawns — he has per- 
haps entailed poverty and wretchedness upon an amia- 
ble woman and a family of helpless innocents, widowed 
and orphaned by his hand. 

But does the duellist find no bitter ingredient min- 
gled in the delicious cup from which he is quaffing ? 
Alas, the revenge in which he is delighting has been 
purchased at a price, in comparison with which, the 
honor and pleasures of the world are but as the dust 
of the balance. 



192 WHAT MAKES BEAUTY. 

When the storm of passion has subsided — when the 
bustle of business, and the excitements of pride and 
ambition shall have given place to sober and retired 
reflection, conscience will resume her empire, and her 
still small voice will appal his soul with the tremen- 
dous truths it will reveal. The wretchedness and 
desolation of which he has been the author will rise to 
his view in all their accumulated horrors; and in the 
stillness of the night, his affrighted imagination will 
hear his brother's blood crying from the ground to 
Him who hath promised to avenge. As the infirmi- 
ties of age, and the inroads of disease remind him of 
his mortality, his thoughts will reluctantly wander 
beyond the tomb, and a judgment to come will force 
itself upon his reflection. 



WHAT MAKES BEAUTY. 

The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels 
No harmony within; the south wind steals 
As silent as unseen among the leaves. 
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives, 
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more — 
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar 
Of winds and flinging waves — put out the light, 
When high and angry passions meet in fight; 
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled, 
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world: 
The fiends of his own bosom people air 
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair. 

Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms 
All things into its likeness ; heaves in storms 



THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 193 

The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest, 
Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast — 
Which gives each outward circumstance its hue, 
And shapes all other's acts and thoughts anew, 
That, so, they joy, or love, or hate, impart, 
As joy, love, hate, holds rule within the heart. 

Dana, 



THE WAY TO BE HAPPY. 

All mankind are brethren. Every human being 
who comes in our way and stands in need of our aid 
is entitled to our sympathy. Human nature and 
distress form a legitimate claim to our friendly assist- 
ance. We are not to withhold our brotherly affection 
from any of our fellow men, because an imaginary 
line, a river, a ridge of mountains, or a channel of 
the ocean, may have separated their birthplace from 
ours; because their manners, customs, and political 
institutions are not the same with our own; because, 
by reason of difference of climate and manner of life 
their skin is tinged with a different color; because 
they offer their tribute of homage to the Creator in a 
different manner; or because there is some difference 
or shade of difference between their religious rites and 
opinions and ours. 

The sentiment of universal benevolence expands the 
heart, humanizes the mind, and fosters every generous 
affection; but jealousy, malice, hatred, and other malig- 
nant passions pervert the soul, and cramp and vitiate 
the best feelings of our nature. They wage war with 
every manly and liberal principle. Instead of sweep- 

17 



194 SONG OF THE BEES. 

ing the globe with the guilty purpose of oppressing the 
weak, robbing the defenceless, exciting the sound of 
lamentation in the humble hut, and drawing forth the 
tears of the widow and the orphan, let us do what is 
in our power to promote the happiness of our fellow 
men. In the genuine spirit of brotherly affection, let 
us smoke the pipe of peace with the untutored wan- 
derer of the western wilderness — or partake of bread 
and salt with the hardy native of the African desert. 

Mankind often complain that they are unhappy; 
that they tread in a thorny path, and drink of a bitter 
stream. But whence do their sufferings and sorrows 
flow? Do they not, in great measure, proceed from 
their own selfish and malignant passions? Remove 
the cause, and the effect will disappear. Banish mal- 
ice, envy, hatred; let genuine good-will towards each 
other prevail, and a great portion of human misery 
will fade away, like darkness before the rising sun. 
It will dissipate the gloom which often clouds the 
countenance, and remove the grief which often preys 
upon the heart. Fergus. 



SONG OF THE BEES. 

We watch for the light of the morn to break 

And color the eastern sky 
With its blended hues of saffron and lake; 
Then say to each other, ' awake! awake! 
For our winter's honey is all to make, 

And our bread for a long supply!' 

And off we hie to the hill and the dell, 
To the field, the meadow and bower; 



DUELLING CONSIDERED. 195 

In the columbine's horn we love to dwell, — 
To dip in the lily with snow-white bell — 
To search the balm in its odorous cell, 
The mint and the rosemary flower! 

We seek the bloom of the eglantine, 

Of the pointed thistle and brier; 
And follow the steps of the wandering vine, 
Whether it trail on the earth, supine. 
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine, 

And reach for a state still higher. 

As each on the good of her sisters bent. 

Is busy and cares for all, 
We hope for an evening with heart's content, — 
For the winter of life without lament 
That the summer is gone wdth its hours mispent. 

And the harvest is past recall! 

Miss H. F. Gould, 



DUELLING CONSIDERED. 

It may be urged, that although a man professedly 
religious may be excused from fighting, yet in other 
cases, a refusal can be ascribed only to cowardice, 
and must therefore be disgraceful. But is it the 
Christian alone who shrinks from shedding human 
blood? Do the parental and conjugal cffections glow 
only in the heart that is warmed with piety towards 
God? The duellist will not readily make these admis- 
sions; but unless he makes them, he must confess that 
even an infidel may decline a duel from a reluctance to 
bring down the hoary heads of his parents with sor- 



196 DUELLING CONSIDERED. 

row to the grave^ or to cast the partner of his bosom, 
and the children of his love, friendless and wretched 
upon the world. 

Still it is contended, that to avoid a duel through 
fear of personal injury, is cowardly; and that he who 
is not restrained by religious principles or domestic 
considerations, must fight when insulted, or chal- 
lenged, or be for ever disgraced. The incorrectness 
of this assertion is proved by the almost daily instan- 
ces of men passing over in silence the insults offered 
to them, without forfeiting their honorable standing in 
society, and without pleading either religious or do- 
mestic restraints, as an apology for their conduct. 

That cowardice is disgraceful, is true; but the 
application of this sentiment to the present subject 
adds another to the numerous instances in which seri- 
ous evils have resulted from the use of words in a 
vague, indefinite sense. Where is the duellist, who 
assailed by a dangerous disease, would think it cow- 
ardly to save his life by using the prescribed remedies; 
or who, if a spectator of a shooting-match, would dis- 
dain to stand without the range of the shot, lest his 
courage might be suspected? 

If a desire to avoid pain and death be cowardly, all 
mankind are cowards. It is not an unwillingness to 
hazard life, or an anxiety to preserve it, that consti- 
tutes cowardice. He alone is a coward, who forms an 
unreasonable and exaggerated estimate of danger, or 
who refuses to incur it at the call of duty. Before, 
therefore, a man can be deemed a coward foj: not con- 
senting to be a mark to be shot at, it must be proved, 
either that he greatly overrates the risk he would run, 
or that by withholding his consent, he is violating his 
duty. 



THE WINTER NIGHT. 197 



THE WINTER NIGHT. 

'T IS the high festival of night! 
The earth is radiant with deUght; 
And, fast as weary day retires, 
The heaven unfolds its secret fires, 
Bright, — as when first the firmament 
Around the new made world was bent, 
And infant seraphs pierced the blue. 
Till rays of heaven came shining through. 

And mark the heaven's reflected glow 

On many an icy plain below; 

And where the streams with 4:inkling clash 

Against the frozen barriers dash, 

Like fairy lances fleetly cast 

The glittering ripples hurry past, 

And floating sparkles glance afar 

Like rivals of some upper star. 

And see, beyond, how sweetly still 
The snowy moonlight wraps the hill, 
And many an ^ged pine receives 
The steady brightness on its leaves. 
Contrasting with those giant forms 
Which, rifled by the winter storms. 
With naked branches broad and high, 
Are darkly painted on the sky. 

From every mountain's towering head 

A white and glistening robe is spread, 

As if a melted silver tide 

Were gushing down its lofty side; 
17# 



198 TASTE AND FASHION. 

The clear cold lustre of the moon 
Is purer than the burning noon, 
And day hath never known the charm 
That dwells amid this evening calm. 

The idler on his silken bed 

May talk of nature cold and dead; 

But we will gaze upon this scene, 

Where some transcendent power hath been, 

And made these streams of beauty flow 

In gladness on the world below, 

Till nature breathes from every part 

The rapture of her mighty heart. Peabody, 



TASTE AND FASHION. 

Changes of taste and fashion do not always imply a 
change of moral character. The different periods of 
national, as well as individual existence, have their 
peculiar forms of virtue and vice. Because the fea- 
tures of youth are no longer discernible, in manhood, 
we may not infer, that the keen sense of virtue and 
honor, the enthusiasm of love and patriotism, are suc- 
ceeded by selfishness, misanthropy, and vice. The 
moralist delights to portray the purity and virtue of 
youth. 

It is, indeed, a period of unformed character. It 
may be a period of innocence. But virtue, high and 
impregnable virtue, belongs to an age of reflection, of 
intelligent and settled principle. Since the days of 
Rousseau, it has been attempted to invest the infancy 
of nations with a corresponding charm of unsophisti- 



DIVINE PROVIDENCE. 199 

cated, generous sentiment. Civilized and refined 
imagination has spread its own colors over the simple, 
free, enthusiastic manners of the savage, amidst the 
untouched works, the unprofaned solitudes, of nature. 

But Rousseau and Chateaubriand, full of the taste 
and sentiment of Paris, are very different beings, in 
the wilderness, from a North American savage. What 
are the beauty and magnificence of nature to him? 
What that eternal forest, stretching from ocean to 
ocean, and shutting out the light of heaven from the 
face of a continent ^ What, but a convenient hunting 
ground, a place to chase the deer, and entrap the 
bear? What is it to him, that God has piled the moun- 
tains to the clouds, that he pours the rivers from their 
sides, causing them to swell and roll to the ocean? 
He hears the thunder of the cataract, and stands, with 
awe, to see the waters dash and foam. 

No, the great impression, the mighty moral, is all 
lost upon him. The charm of nature is, after all, 
an artificial charm. Her greatest spectacles are only 
so much rock, and wood, and water. Intellect, culti- 
vated intellect, invests the world with beauty. 

Mind, mind alone, bear witness, earth and heaven I 
The living fountains in itself contains, 
Of beauteous and sublime. 

Hadduck, 



DIVINE PROVIDENCE. 



Is it objected against an overruling Providence that 
it is impossible for the human mind to conceive of such 
an all-pervading power and energy as it supposes to 



200 DIVINE PROVIDENCE. 

exist? And what, I may answer, if the mind does 
sink beneath the vastness of such a conception, and 
the most vivid imagination faint in contemplating it, 
may not this be urged with equal force against the 
existence of every divine attribute? What eye can 
gaze undazzled upon the divine glory ? Where is the 
finite intelligence that can comprehend the divine 
nature ? Where is the display of divine wisdom — where 
is the display of divine power — before which the mind 
does not stagger and the imagination droop ? 

Whatever may be our own conceptions, it is a truth 
made evident by revelation, that the providence of 
God is universal — it is neither narrowed nor limited 
by human boundaries. It is not marked by earthly 
distinctions. It is not confined to one age and gene- 
ration, to this or that particular nation or individual. 
It reaches to every human being. The conqueror in 
his hour of triumph and the wretched captive chained 
to his chariot wheels; the rich man clothed in purple 
and faring sumptuously every day, and Lazarus per- 
ishing at his gate, are equally beneath the eye of their 
heavenly Father. 

There is no moment in which divine care is remit- 
ted or divine protection withdrawn. When we lie 
down on our beds, God maketh us to sleep in peace 
and safety amidst the darkness and insecurity of night. 
When we rise from our morning pillows and mingle In 
the active scenes of life, his power preserves us from 
the dangers that impend. His providence is over us 
when weak and helpless infants we first waken into 
life. His providence is around us when age throws 
over us its hoary mantle, and we are wasting into our 
graves under the gradual decay of nature. When the 
eye is dim, and the love of man grows cold, and 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE. OQl 

earthly friendships fail, God does not fail us. When 
human power is vain, and friends would but can- 
not help, there is one being willing and able to save 
us! Field, 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 

Eagle! this is not thy sphere! 
Warrior-bird, what seekest thou here? 
Wherefore by the fountain's brink 
Doth thy royal pinion sink ? 
Wherefore on the violet's bed 
Layst thou thus thy drooping head? 
Thou that holdst the blast in scorn, 
Thou, that wearst the wings of morn! 

Eagle! wilt thou not arise? 
Look upon thine own bright skies! 
Lift thy glance! — the fiery sun 
There his pride of place hath won, 
And the mountain lark is there; 
And sweet sound hath filled the air. 
Hast thou left that realm on high? — 
Oh it can be but to die! 

Eagle, eagle! thou has bowed 
From thine empire o'er the cloud! 
Thou that hadst ethereal birth: 
Thou hast stooped too near the earth, 
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
And the toils of death have bound thee! 
Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, 
Creature of a kingly race ? 



'202 ANCIENT NATIONS. 

Wert thou weary on thy throne ? 
Was the sky's dominion lone? 
Chill and lone it well might be, 
Yet that mighty wing was free! 
Now the chain is o'er it cast, 
From thy heart the blood flows fast. 
Wo for gifted souls and high ! 
Is not such their destiny? 

Mrs. Hemans, 



ANCIENT NATIONS. 

If we go back to any of the nations of antiquity — 
to those which surpassed all their contemporaries as 
much as did Egypt and Babylon — what notion does 
history warrant us in forming of the intellectual state 
of the mass of the people? We think of them as 
growing up on the soil very much as do the vegeta- 
bles around them ; with no fostering care put forth to 
encourage and guide them ; with no streams of know- 
ledge winding their way to every hamlet, gratifying 
an eager curiosity, and furnishing nutriment for grow- 
ing minds; with no eye to look out on the widely- 
extended and varied scenes of the world; and no 
public spirit to feel an interest in the concerns of their 
fellow men. They grew up on the spot, obtained a 
hard-earned subsistence for a few years, never roused 
from their stupidity, but to repel an invasion, to ravage 
a state, or to build a city — and they died on the spot, 
their life no benefit to the world of men around them, 
and their death no loss- 

We often read of the splendid achievements of 



ANCIENT NATIONS. 093 

ancient armies. But what idea are we warranted in 
forming of the multitudes of human beings congre- 
gated in these armies? They were brave, but their 
bravery was insensibility. They were powerful, but 
their power was mere brute force, having not many 
more marks of intelligence in it than were in the 
power of their battering engines. They accomplished 
the will of a more thinking leader, but their obedience 
was an almost instinctive recognition of a master. 
Think of the five millions whom Xerxes is said 
to have led into Greece, — five millions of human 
beings, made to think and act, and to take on them- 
selves an individual responsibility, and at last to 
render an account for their thoughts and actions! But 
how many minds do you suppose there were in this 
moving nation, in which you could have found traces 
of intelligence much beyond common animal instinct 
and mere contrivance to exist ? 

The proud and unhappy monarch looked over this 
vast assemblage, and, with a sickening and gloomy 
sensibility, wept to think that all the individuals of it 
would be dead in less than a hundred years. But 
what if they did die.^ What effect could their death 
have upon the world? They had done nothing for 
it. They were capable of doing nothing for it. Ex- 
cepting that the physical strength of the empire 
would be somewhat diminished, the world would be 
no more affected by their death, than by the felling 
of so many trees in the forests of Scythia. They 
might have gone with the armies of locusts, and per- 
ished on the shores of the Levant, the existence and 
the movements of the one as well as the other, having 
been known to the world only by the desolations that 
marked their progress. E. Everett. 



204 AMBITION. 



AMBITION. 



I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry, 

And panted at the drum's deep roll; 
And held my breath, when, flaming high, 
I saw our starry banners fly. 
As challenging the haughty sky, 

They went like battle o'er my soul: 
For I was so ambitious then, 
I burned to be the slave — of men. 

I stood and saw the morning light, 

A standard swaying far and free; 
And loved it, like the conquering flight 
Of angels, floating wide and bright, 
Above the stars, above the fight. 

Where nations warred for liberty; 
And thought I heard the battle cry 
Of trumpets in the hollow sky. 

I sailed upon the dark-blue deep, 

And shouted to the eaglet soaring; 
And hung me from a rocky steep. 
When all but spirits were asleep; 
And oh! my very soul would leap 

To hear the gallant water's roaring: 
For every sound and shape of strife 
To me, was but the breath of life. 

But, I am strangely altered now — 

I love no more the bugle's voice — 
The rushing wave — the plunging prow — 
The mountain with its clouded brow — 



HUMILITY. 205 

The thunder when the blue skies bow, 

And all the sons of God rejoce- — 
I love to dream of tears and sighs 
And shadowy hair and half-shut eyes. JS*eal. 



HUMILITY. 



Humility is produced by a just estimate of our- 
selves, of our condition and attainments. When we 
consider the character, condition, and attainments of 
men, we see much ground for lowliness of mind, but 
none for pride. Are we not entirely dependent upon 
God and upon one another for the blessings and 
enjoyments of human life? What elevation of rank, 
what accumulation of property, can exempt men from 
a dependence, for much of their daily comfort, on their 
fellow creatures? Or, are our attainments in know- 
ledge and virtue such as should inspire us with self- 
gratulation? How deplorable has been the condition 
of mankind in all ages, when destitute of the light of 
revelation? How profound has been their ignorance 
concerning things the most necessary, and things the 
most awfully important! 

Humility is indispensably requisite to the discharge 
of our duties. Without it, how can we practice those 
which we owe to God? How can we obey his com- 
mandments, without the entire subjection to his will 
and authority which is essential to all obedience? 
How can we believe his truth, under the influence of 
the pride of reason and of knowledge? How can we 
submit to his dispensations with lofly and unjust views 
of what is due to ourselves? How can we aspire to a 

18 



206 THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. 

higher conformity to the divine image, when we arc so 
well satisfied with the degree of excellence which we 
have attained? 

Nor, with the absence of this christian virtue, shall 
we be less deficient in our duties to our fellow crea- 
tures. These should emanate from the love of benev- 
olence, or of good will and compassion; but pride 
prevents the existence and operation of this affection, 
and incapacitates the mind from forming a fair esti- 
mate of the rights of others. The proud man may 
be upright in his dealings, just because he is too 
proud to be otherwise; but will he esteem others 
better than himself, and view their claims with the 
kindness and candor which, by the law of love, and by 
the law of God, he is bound to do ? Does not pride 
give rise to implacable and revengeful feelings, and 
produce misery in families and in nations? 

Dewar. 



V 



THE SPIRIT OF BEAUTY. 



The Spirit of Beauty unfurls her light. 
And wheels her course in a joyous flight; 
I know her track though the balmy air. 
By the blossoms that cluster and whiten there ; 
She leaves the tops of the mountains green, 
And gems the valley with crystal sheen. 

At morn, I know where she rested at night. 
For the roses are gushing with dewy delight; 
Then she mounts again, and around her flings 
A shower of light from her purple wings. 



THE WORLD. 207 

Till the spirit is druak with the music on high, 
That silently fills it with ecstasy! 

At noon, she hies to a cool retreat. 

Where bowering elms over waters meet; 

She dimples the wave where the green leaves dip, 

And smiles, as it curls like a maiden's lip. 

When her tremulous bosom would hide in vain, 

From her lover, the hope that she loves again. 

At eve, she hangs o'er the western sky 

Dark clouds for a glorious canopy; 

And round the skirts of each sweeping fold. 

She paints a border of crimson and gold. 

Where the lingering sunbeams love to stay. 

When their god in his glory has passed away. 

She hovers around us at twilight hour. 

Where her presence is felt with the deepest power; 

She mellows the landscape, and crowds the stream 

With shadows that flit like a fairy dream: 

Still wheeling her flight through the gladsome air, 

The Spirit of Beauty is everywhere! Dawes, 



THE WORLD, 

How beautiful the world is! The green earth cov- 
ered with flowers — the trees laden with rich blossoms 
— the blue sky, and the bright water, and the golden 
sunshine. The world is indeed beautiful, and He who 
made it must be beautiful. 

It is a happy world. Hark! how the merry birds 
sing — and the young lambs — see! how they gambol on 



208 INSTRUCTIONS FROM NATURE. 

the hill-side. Even the trees wave, and the brooks 
ripple, in gladness. Yon eagle? — Ah! how joyously 
he soars up to the glorious heavens — the bird of 
liberty, the bird of America. 

* His throne is on the mountain top j 

His fields — the boundless air ; 
And hoary peaks, that proudly prop 

The skies — his dwellings are. 

He rises, like a thing of light, 

Amid the noontide blaze : 
The midway sun is clear £,nd bright — 

It cannot dim his gaze.' 

It is happy — I see it and hear it all about me — nay, I 
feel it — here, in the glow, the eloquent glow of my 
own heart. He who made it must be happy. 

It is a great world. Look off to the mighty ocean 
when the storm is upon it; — to the huge mountain, 
when the thunder and the lightnings play over it; to 
the vast forest — the interminable waste; — the sun, 
the moon, and the myriads of fair stars, countless as 
the sands upon the sea shore. It is a great, a mag- 
nificent world, — and He who made it — Oh! He is the 
perfection of all loveliness, all goodness, all great- 
ness, all gloriousness! 



INSTRUCTIONS FROM NATURE. 

In the spring, who does not love to mark the pro- 
gress of nature — the flower unfolding into beauty, the 
fruit coming forward to maturity, the fields advancing 
to the pride of harvest, and the months revolving into 
the perfect year.^ Who does not love, in the human 
species, to observe the progress to maturity — the 



INSTRUCTIONS FROM NATURE. 209 

infant by degrees growing up to man; the young idea 
beginning to shoot, and the embryo character begin- 
ning to unfold? 

But if these things affect us with delight; if the 
prospect of external nature in its progress; if the 
flower unfolding into beauty, if the fruit coming for- 
ward to maturity, if the infant by degrees growing up 
to man, and the embryo character beginning to un- 
fold, affect us with pleasurable sensations, how much 
greater delight will it afford, to observe the progress 
of this new creation, the growth of the soul in the 
graces of the divine life, good resolutions ripening 
into good actions, good actions leading to confirmed 
habits of virtue, and the new nature advancing from 
the first lineaments of virtue, to the full beauty of 
holiness! 

These are pleasures that time will not take away. 
While animal spirits fail, and joys, which depend 
upon the liveliness of the passion, decline with years, 
the solid comforts of a holy life, the delights of virtue 
and a good conscience, will be a new source of hap- 
piness in old age, and have a charm for the end of 
life. 

As the stream flows pleasantest when it approaches 
the ocean; as the flowers send up their sweetest odors 
at the close of day; as the sun appears with great- 
est beauty in his going down; so, at the end of his 
career, the virtues and graces of a good man's life, 
come before him with the most delightful remem- 
brance, and impart a joy which he never felt before. 
Over all the moments of life, religion scatters her 
favors, but reserves her best, her choicest, her divin- 
est blessings for the last hour. Logan. 

18^ 



210 THE NEW MOON. 



THE NEW MOON. 

When, as the garish day is done, 
Heaven burns with the descended sun, 

Tis passing sweet to mark, 
Amid the flush of crimson light, 
The new moon's modest bow grow bright, 

As earth and sky grow dark. 

Few are the hearts too cold to feel 
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal, 

When first the wandering eye 
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze. 
That glimmermg curve of tender rays 

Just planted in the sky. 

The sight of that young crescent brings 
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things — 

The hopes of early years; 
And childhood's purity and grace, 
And joys that, like a rainbow, chase 

The passing shower of tears. 

The captive yields him to the dream 
Of freedom, when the virgin beam 

Comes out upon the air; 
And painfully the sick man tries 
To fix his dim and burning eyes 

On the soft promise there. 

Most welcome to the lover's sight 
Glitters that pure, emerging light; 
For prattling poets say, 



HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. 211 

That sweetest is the lovers' walk, 
And tenderest is their murmured talk, 
Beneath its gentle ray. 

And there do graver men behold 
A type of errors, loved of old, 

Forsaken and forgiven; 
And thoughts and wishes not of earth, 
Just opening in their early birth. 

Like that new light in heaven. Bryant. 



HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. 

Mr. G. Ha! Steward, how are you my old boy? 
how do things go on at home? 

Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie 's 
dead. 

Mr. G. Poor Mag! so he 's gone. How came he 
to die? 

Stew. Over-ate himself, sir. 

Mr. G. Did he, faith? a greedy dog; why, what 
did he get he liked so well ? 

Steiv. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse- 
flesh; 

Mr. G. How came he to get so much horse-flesh ? 

Stew. All your father's horses, sir. 

Mr. G. What ! are they dead, too ? 

Stew. Ay, sir; they died of over-work. 

Mr. G. And why were they over-worked, pray? 

Steiv. To carry water, sir. 

Mr. G. To carry water! and what were they car- 
rying water for ? 



212 THE VALUE OF A CEJST. 

Stew. Sure, sir, to put out the fire. 

Mr, G. Fire! what fire? 

Stew. Oh, sir, your father's house is burned down 
to the ground. 

Mr. G. My father's house burned down! and how 
came it set on fire? 

Steio. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. 

Mr. G. Torches! what torches? 

Stew. At your mother's funeral. 

Mr. G. My mother dead! 

Stew. Ah, poor lady, she never looked up after it. 

Mr. G. After what ? 

Stew. The loss of your father. 

Mr. G. My father gone too ? 

Stew. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as 
soon as he heard of it. 

Mr. G. Heard of what? 

Stew. The bad news, sir, and please your honor. 

Mr. G. What! more miseries! more bad news? 

Stew. Yes, sir, your bank has failed, and your 
credit is lost, and you are not worth a shilling in the 
world. I made bold sir, to come to wait on you 
about it, for I thought you would like to hear the 
news! 



THE VALUE OF A CENT. 

It is an old saying, that a ' pin a day is a groat a 
year,' by which common expression some wise man 
has intended to teach thoughtless people the value of 
small savings. We shall endeavor to show the value 
of a somewhat higher article, though a much despised 
one — we mean a cent. 



THE VALUE OF A CENT. 213 

Cents, like minutes, are often thrown away because 
people do not know what to do with them. Those 
who are economists of time, and all the great men on 
record have been so, take care of the minutes, for 
they know that a few minutes well applied each day 
will make hours in the course of a week, and days in 
the course of a year; and in the course of a long life, 
they will make enough of time, if well employed, in 
wdiich a man by perseverance may have accomplished 
some work, useful to his fellow creatures, and honor- 
able to himself 

Large fortunes, \)^hen gained honestly, are rarely ac- 
quired in any other way than by small savings at first; 
and savings can only be made by habits of industry 
and temperance. A saving man, therefore, while he 
is adding to the general stock of wealth, is setting an 
example of those virtues on which the very existence 
and happiness of society depend. There are saving 
people who are misers, and have no one good quality 
for which w^e can like them. These are not the kind of 
people of whom w^e are speaking; but vre may remark 
that a miser, though a disagreeable fellow while alive, 
is a very useful person when dead. He has been 
compared to a tree, which, w^hile it is growing can be 
applied to no use, but at last furnishes timber for 
houses and domestic utensils. But a miser is infinitely 
more useful than a spendthrift, a mere consumer and 
waster, who, after he has spent all his own money, 
tries to spend that of other people. 

Suppose a young man, just beginning to work for 
himself, could save but five cents a day; and we 
believe there are very few who could not do it. Who 
could not save this amount daily from his expenditures, 
without lessening his comforts.^ — Yet, this with the 



214 DEATH AND THE DRUNKARD. 

accumulating interest, in the course of ten years will 
amount to the sum of two hundred and thirty dollars, 
sixty-four cents; in twenty years to six hundred and 
sixty-three dollars, fifty-eight cents; in thirty years to 
one thousand three hundred and ninety-six dollars, 
sixty-seven cents; in forty years to two thousand eight 
hundred and fifty-five dollars, forty-two cents; and in 
fifty years to five thousand three hundred and fifty- 
four dollars, thirteen cents. 

It will appear from this mode of calculation, that 
the amount doubles in about ten years. Let the pro- 
cess be continued two hundred years, and this trifling 
sum of i\\e cents each day will produce a total of one 
hundred and fifty millions of dollars — equal perhaps to 
all the banking capital in the United States. 



DEATH AND THE DRUNKARD. 

His form was fair, his cheek was health; 

His word a bond, his purse was wealth; 

With wheat his field was covered o'er, 

Plenty sat smiling at his door. 

His wife the fount of ceaseless joy; 

How laughed his daughter, played his boy; 

His library, though large, was read. 

Till half its contents decked his head. 

At morn 't was health, wealth, pure delight, 

'T was health, wealth, peace, and bliss at night; 

I wished not to disturb his bliss — 

'T is gone ! but all the fault was his. 

The social glass I saw him seize, 
The more with festive wit to please ; 



DEATH AND THE DRUNKARD. 215 

Daily increase his love of cheer — 
Ah, little thought he I was near! 
Gradual indulgence on him stole, 
Frequent became the midnight bowl. 
I in that bowl the head-ache placed, 
Which, with the juice, his lips embraced. 
Shame next I mingled with the draught; 
Indignantly he drank and laughed. 

In the bowl's bottom bankruptcy 

I placed — he drank with tears and glee. 

Remorse did I into it pour ; 

He only sought the bowl the more. 

I mingled next joint-torturing pain; 

Little the less did he refrain. 

The dropsy in the cup I mixed; 

Still to his mouth the cup was fixed. 

My emissaries thus in vain 

I sent, the mad wretch to restrain. 

On the bowl's bottom then myself 
I threw ; the most aborrent elf 
Of all that mortals hate or dread; 
And thus in horrid whispers said — 
^ Successless ministers I've sent, 
Thy hastening ruin to prevent; 
Their lessons nought — then here am 1; 
Think not my threatenings to defy. 
Swallow this, this, thy last 'twill be, 
For with it thou must swallow me.' 

Haggard his eyes, upright his hair. 
Remorse his lips, his cheeks despair; 
With shaking hand the bowl he clasped, 



216 ON THE STATE OF SLEEP. 

My meatless limbs his carcass grasped 
And bore it to the church-yard — where 
Thousands, ere I would call, repair. 

Death speaks — ah, reader, dost thou hear? 
Hast thou no lurking cause to fear? 
Has not o'er thee the sparkling bowl 
Constant, commanding, sly control? 
Betimes reflect, betimes beware — 
Though ruddy, healthful now, and fair, 
Before slow reason lose the sway. 
Reform — ^postponed another day, 
Too soon may mix with common clay. 



ON THE STATE OF SLEEP. 

Behold the most vigorous constitution, when re- 
signed to the slumbers of the night. Its inactivity is 
oppressed with indolence ; its strength suffers a tem- 
porary annihilation. The nerves are like a bow un- 
strung, the whole animal like a motionless log. 

Behold a person of the most delicate sensations and 
amiable dispositions. His eyes, though wide open, 
discern no light, distinguish no objects. His ears, 
with the organs unimpaired, perceive not the sounds 
that are round about them. The very fine sense of 
feeling is overwhelmed with an utter stupefaction. 
Where are his social affections? He knows not 
his tender parent, nor the friend that is as his own 
soul. 

Behold the most ingenious scholar, skilful in learn- 
ing. In this state, how are all his thinking faculties 



THE AIR. 217 

unhinged, and instead of close connected reasonings, 
there is nothing but a disjointed huddle of absurd 
notions. Instead of well-digested principles, nothing 
but a disorderly jumble of conceptions. 

Yet no sooner does he awake, than he is possessed 
of all his former endowments. His sinews are braced 
and fit for action, his senses brisk and keen. The 
frozen affections melt with tenderness — the romantic 
visionary is again master of reason. 

And, (what is very surprising,) the confused mind 
does not regulate itself by degrees, but in the twink- 
ling of an eye it is possessed of all its faculties! 
Why does not the numbness which seized the animal 
powers, chain the limbs perpetually.^ Why does not 
the stupor that deadened all the senses, hold fast its 
possession? When the thoughts are once disadjusted, 
why are they not always in confusion } 



THE AIR. 



No term is more familiar to every body than the 
term air. But if an uninstructed person were asked 
what the air was, his first answer would probably be, 
that it was nothing at all. This hand^ he might say, 
which is now plunged in water, on being drawn out of 
the water is said to be lifled into the air — which means 
merely that there is nothing, or only vacancy, around 
it. In other words, he might say, the air is just the 
name that is given to the empty space, which is imme- 
diately over the surface of the earth. 

A little reflection, however, or a question or two 
more, would probably raise some doubts as to the cor- 
19 



218 THE BEACON LIGHT. 

rectness of this philosophy. If the air be nothing, it 
might be asked, what is the wind? Or what is it, 
even when there is no wind, which makes very light 
substances wave or flutter on being drawn through the 
air, or when they are merely dropped from the hand, 
detains them on their way to the ground ? Or, to take 
another illustration from the commonest experience, 
who is there that has not seen a bladder distended or 
swollen with the air? If the air be nothing, how 
comes a portion of it to present such palpable resist- 
ance to pressure, when thus confined? 

The truth is,* the air in which we walk is as much a 
real and substantial part of our world as the earth on 
which we walk. Empty space would no more do for 
our bodies to live in, than it would for our feet to tread 
upon The atmosphere, that is, the case of air in 
which the solid globe is enveloped, is composed of 
matter as well as that solid globe itself. As the one 
is matter in a solid, so the other is matter in a fluid 
state. It is merely a thinner fluid than water, which 
also rests upon and encompasses a great part of the 
earth; but as fishes exist and can only exist in their 
ocean of water, so do we exist and can exist only in 
our ocean of air. 



THE BEACON LIGHT. 

Darkness was deep'ning o'er the seas, 
And still the hulk drove on; 

No sail to answer to the breeze. 
Her masts and cordage gone: 

Gloomy and drear her course of fear, 



EVILS OF WAR. 219 

Each looked but for a grave, 
When full in sight, the beacon-light 
Came streaming o'er the wave! 

Then wildly rose the glad'ning shout 

Of all that hardy crew — 
Boldly they put the helm about. 

And through the surf they flew; 
Storm was forgot, toil heeded not. 

And loud the cheer they gave. 
As full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave! 

And gaily oft the tale they told. 

When they were safe on shore, 
How hearts had sunk, and hope grown cold, 

Amid the billows' roar; 
That not a star had shone afar 

'By its pale beam to save. 
When full in sight, the beacon-light 

Came streaming o'er the wave! 



EVILS OF WAR. 

War removes all those wholesome restraints upon 
the passions of men, which it is at once the object and 
boast of civilisation to impose. Its tendency is to 
throw society back into a state of comparative barba- 
rism. Men are invited, encouraged, nay, commanded 
to hate their enemies. A whole people are instantly to 
be viewed in this character; and it becomes not lawful 



220 EVILS OF WAR. 

merely, but a duty to sacrifice their property, liberty 
and lives. 

This is the lesson which war teaches ! And is it by 
learning and practising lessons like this, that society, 
like an atmosphere, poisoned and polluted by the 
violence of the tempest, becomes tranquillized and 
purified? What is the language of experience on this 
point? A war ended, and armies disbanded, what 
does war give back to society ? The principles, feel- 
ings, and morals, which are discharged from the 
camp, are brought home into your villages to contam- 
inate, pollute and poison. 

Government is besieged by a throng of suppliants, 
who exhibit their shattered constitutions, maimed 
limbs, and wounded bodies, as passports to the doors 
of the treasury. Pension rolls are swelled and multi- 
plied. The revenues of the country (if indeed any 
are left) must be appropriated to sustain lives painful, 
destitute, and wretched in themselves, as well as 
useless to society. 

Happy would it be, if the evil stopped here. Happy 
indeed for society, if the baneful effects of war could 
be limited to inroads upon the bodies of its agents 
and victims. But mangled minds, depraved hearts, 
vitiated appetites, brutalized passions, — on what pen- 
sion roll shall these be placed? What asylum can 
society offer to this mass of intellectual disability, but 
her hospitals? What protection can she oflTer to her- 
self against this tide of mental depravity, but her pen- 
itentiaries ? 

Peace, on the contrary, softens and subdues the 
passions. Its first teachings are fraternal. Those 
passions which it cannot subdue by discipline, it seeks 
to control by legal restraint. It establishes a social 



THE DEEP. 221 

compact, which embraces all nations. It brings men 
together from distant regions, without the weapons of 
death in their hands, and with the feelings of humanity 
in their hearts. Bigelow. 



THE DEEP. 



There 's beauty in the deep: — 
The wave is bluer than the sky; 
And though the light shine bright on high, 
More softly do the sea-gems glow 
That sparkle in the depths below; 
The rainbow's tints are only made 
When on the waters they are laid. 
And Sun and Moon most sweetly shine 
Upon the ocean's level brine. 

There 's beauty in the deep. 

There 's music in the deep: — 
It is not in the surf's rough roar, 
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore — 
They are but earthly sounds, that tell 
How little of the sea-nymph's shell. 
That sends its loud, clear note abroad, 
Or winds its softness through the flood. 
Echoes through groves with coral gay. 
And dies, on spongy banks, away. 
There 's music in the deep. 

There 's quiet in the deep:-— 
Above, let tides and tempests rave, 
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave; 
19=^ 



222 PATRIOTIC TRIUMPH. 

Above, let care and fear contend. 
With sin and sorrow to the end: 
Here, far beneath the tainted foam, 
*That frets above our peaceful home. 
We dream in joy, and wake in love. 
Nor know the rage that yells above. 
, There 's quiet in the deep. Brainard. 



PATRIOTIC TRIUMPH. 

The citizens of America celebrate that day which 
gave birth to their liberties. The recollection of this 
event, replete with consequences so beneficial to 
mankind, swells every heart with joy and fills every 
tongue with praise. We celebrate not the sanguinary 
exploits of a tyrant to subjugate and enslave millions 
of his fellow creatures; we celebrate neither the birth 
nor the coronation of that phantom styled a king; but 
the resurrection of liberty, the emancipation of man- 
kind, the regeneration of the world. These are the 
sources of our joy, these the causes of our triumph. 
We pay no homage at the tomb of kings, to sublime 
our feelings — we trace no line of illustrious ancestors, 
to support our dignity — we recur to no usages sanc- 
tioned by the authority of the great, to protect our 
rejoicing; — no, we love liberty, we glory in the rights 
of men, we glory in independence. On whatever part 
of God's creation a human form pines under chains, 
there Americans drop their tears. 

A dark cloud once shaded this beautiful quarter 
of the globe. Consternation for awhile agitated the 
hearts of the inhabitants. War desolated our fields, 



THE INFANT ORATOR. 223 

and buried our vdes in blood. But the dayspring 
from on high soon opened upon us its glittering portals. 
The angel of liberty descending, dropped on Washing- 
ton's brow the wreath of victory, and stamped on 
American freedom the seal of omnipotence. The 
darkness is past, and the true light now shines to en- 
liven and rejoice mankind. We tread a new^ earth, in 
which dwelleth righteousness; and view a new heaven, 
flaming with inextinguishable stars. Our feet will no 
more descend into the vale of oppressions; our should- 
ers will no more bend under the weight of a foreign 
domination as cruel as it was unjust. Well may we 
rejoice at the return of this glorious anniversary; 
a day dear to every American; a day to be had in 
everlasting remembrance; a day whose light circulates 
joy through the hearts of all republicans, and terror 
through the hearts of all tyrants. Maxcy. 



THE INFANT ORATOR. 

You 'd scarce expect one of my age, 
To speak in public, on the stage; 
And if I chance to fall below 
Demosthenes or Cicero, 
Do n't view me with a critic's eye. 
But pass my imperfections by. 
Large streams from little fountains flow; 
Tall oaks from little acorns grow: 
And though I now am small and young, 
Of judgment weak, and feeble tongue; 
Yet all great learned men, hke me 
Once learned to read their A, B, C. 



224 IRISH COURTESY. ' 

But why may not Columbia's soil 

Rear men as great as Britain's isle; 

Exceed what Greece and Rome have done, 

Or any land beneath the sun? 

May n't Massachusetts boast as great 

As any other sister state ? 

Or, where 's the town, go far and near, 

That does not find a rival here ? 

Or, where 's the boy, but three feet high. 

Who 's made improvements more than I? 

These thoughts inspire my youthful mind 

To be the greatest of mankind; 

Great, not like Caesar, stained with blood; 

But only great, as I am good. Everett. 



IRISH COURTESY. 

Stranger. I have lost my way, good friend; can 
you assist me in finding it? 

O^ Callaghan. Assist you in finding it, sir? ay, by 
my faith and troth, and that I will, if it was to the 
world's end, and farther too. 

Sir. I wish to return by the shortest route to the 
Black Rock. 

O'Cal. Indade, and you will, so plase your honor's 
honor — and O'Callaghan's own self shall show you the 
way, and then you can't miss it, you know 

Sir. I would not give you so much trouble, Mr. 
O'Callaghan. 

O^Cal. It is never a trouble, so plase your honor, 
for an Irishman to do his duty. (Bowing.) 

Str. Whither do you travel, friend. 



IRISH COURTESY. 225 

O^Cal. To Dublin, so plase your honor — sure, all 
the world knows that Judy O'Flannaghan will be mar- 
ried to-morrow, God willing, to Pat Ryan; and Pat, 
you know, is my own foster-brother, — because why, 
we had but one nurse betwane us, and that was my 
own mother — but she died one day, the Lord rest her 
swate soul ! and left me an orphan, for iny father mar- 
ried again, and his new wife was the devil's own child, 
and did nothing but bate me from morning till night — 
Och, why did I not die before I was born to see that 
day, for, by St. Patrick, the woman's heart was as cold 
as a hailstone. 

Str. But what reason could she have for treating 
you so unmercifully, Mr. O'Callaghan? 

O^Cal. Ah, your honor, and sure enough, there 
are always rasons as plenty as pratees for being hard- 
hearted. And I was no bigger than a dumpling at the 
time, so I could not help myself, and my father did 
not care to help me, and so I hopped the twig, and 
parted old Nick's darling; och, may the devil find 
her wherever she goes. — But here I am alive and 
lapeing, and going to see Pat married: and faith, to do 
him justice, he 's as honest a lad as any within ten 
miles of us, and no disparagement neither, — and I 
love Pat, and I love all his family, ay, by my shoul do 
I, every mother's skin of them — and by the same 
token, I have travelled many a long mile to be present 
at his wedding. 

Str. Your miles in Ireland are much longer than 
ours, I believe. 

O^Call, Indade, and you may belave that, your 
honor, because why, St. Patrick measured them in 
his coach, you know. Och, by the powers! — the time 
has been — but 't is no matter, not a single copper at 



226 IRISH COURTESY. 

all at all now belongs to the family — but as I was 
saying, the day has been, ay, by my troth, and the 
night too, when the O'Callaghans, good luck to them, 
held their heads up as high as the best; and though I 
have not a rod of land belonging to me, but what I 
hire, I love my country, and would halve my last 
pratee with every poor cratur that has none. 

Si7\ Pray how does the bride appear, Mr. O'- 
Callaghan? 

O^Cal. Och, by my shoul, your honor, she 's a nate 
article — and then she will be rigged out as gay as a 
lark, and a fine as a pacock, because why, she has a 
great lady for her godmother, long life and success 
to her, who has given Judy two milch cows, and five 
pounds in hard money — And Pat has taken as dacent 
apartments as any in Dublin — a nate comely parlor as_ 
you 'd wish to see, just six fate under ground, with a 
nice, beautiful ladder to go down — and all so complate 
and gentale, and comfortable as a body may say — 

Str. Nothing like comfort, Mr. O'Callaghan. 

O'Cal. Faith, and you may say that, your honor. 
{Rubbing his hands.) Comfort is comfort, says I to 
Mrs. O'Callaghan, when we are all sated so cleverly 
around a great big turf fire, as merry as grigs, with 
the dear little grunters snoring so swately in the 
corner, defying wind and weather, with a dry thatch, 
and a sound conscience to go to slape upon — 

Str. A good conscience makes a soft pillow. 

O^Cal. Och, jewel, sure it is not the best beds 
that make the best slapers; for there 's Kathleen and 
myself can slape like two great big tops, and our bed 
is none of the softest— because why, we slape on the 
ground, and have no bed at all at all. 

Str. It is a pity, my honest fellow, that you should 



WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ? 227 

ever want one. There, — {Giving him a guinea.) — 
Good b'ye, Mr. O'Callaghan. 

O'Cal.^ I '11 drink your honor's health, that I will 
— and may God and the blessed Virgin bless you and 
yours, as long as grass grows and water runs. 

Sedley, 



WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? 

What is that, mother ? 

The lark, my child. 
The morn has just looked out, and smiled. 
When he starts from his humble grassy nest, 
And is up and away with the dew on his breast. 
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, 
To warble it out in his Maker's ear. 
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays, 
Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 

. What is that, mother? 

The dove, my son.— 
And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan, 
Is flowing out from her gentle breast, 
Constant and pure by that lonely nest, 
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, 
For her distant dear one's quick return. 
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove; 
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. 

What is that, mother? 

The eagle, my boy. 
Proudly careering his course of joy, 



228 USES OF WATER. 

Firm, in his own mountain vigor relying; 
Breasting the dark storm; the red bolt defying; 
His wing on the wind, and eye on the sun, 
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. 
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine; 
Onward, and upward, and true to the line. 

What is that, mother? 

The swan, my love. — 
He is floating down from his native grove, 
No loved one now, no nestling nigh; 
He is floating down, by himself, to die. 
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, 
Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. 
Live so, my love, that when death shall come, 
Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home. 

Doane. 



USES OF WATER. 

How common, and yet how beautiful and how pure, 
is a drop of water! See it, as it issues from the rock 
to supply the spring and the stream below. See how 
its meanderings through the plains, and its torrents 
over the clifls, add to the richness and the beauty of the 
landscape. Look into a factory standing by a water- 
fall, in which every drop is faithful to perform its part, 
and hear the groaning and rustling of the wheels, the 
clattering of shuttles, and the buzz of spindles, which, 
under the direction of their fair attendants, are supply- 
ing myriads of fair purchasers with fabrics from the 
cotton plant, the sheep, and the silk worm. 

The majestic river, and the boundless ocean, what 



ADDRESS TO BLOSSOMS. 229 

are they? Are they not made of drops of water? 
How the river steadily pursues its course from the 
mountain's top, down the declivity, over the cliff, and 
through the plain, taking with it every thing in its 
course! How many mighty ships does the ocean float 
upon its bosom? How many fishes sport in its waters! 
How does it form a lodging-place for the Amazon, the 
Mississippi, the Danube, the Rhine, the Ganges, the 
Lena, and the Hoang Ho! 

How piercing are these pure, limpid drops! How 
do they find their way into the depths of the earth, and 
even the solid rock? How many thousand streams, 
hidden from our view by mountain masses, are steadily 
pursuing their courses, deep from the surface which 
forms our standing-place for a few short days! In the 
air, too, how it diffuses itself! Where can a particle of 
air be found which does not contain an atom of water ? 

How much would a famishing man give for a few of 
these pure, limpid drops of water! And where do we 
use it in our daily sustenance ? or rather, where do we 
not use it? Which portion of the food that we have 
taken during our lives did not contain it ? What part 
of our body, which limb, which organ, is not moisten- 
ed with this same faithful servant ? How is our blood, 
that free liquid, to circulate through our veins with- 
out it? 



ADDRESS TO BLOSSOMS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
Why do ye fall so fast? 
Your date is not so past, 
20 



230 ORIGIN OF WAR. 

But you may stay yet here awhile, 
To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What! were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight. 

And so to bid good night? 
'T was pity nature brought ye forth, 

Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you. are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave; 

And after they have shown their pride, 
Like you, awhile, they glide 

Into the grave. JB. Herrick. 



ORIGIN OF WAR. 

On what principle in the nature or condition of 
man, does the advocate for war found its necessity? 
He has been defined to be a religious animal. But 
who will find the cause or the necessity of wars in 
man's religion? Every relation he sustains to his 
Creator — every light in which he can be viewed, as 
connected with his final Judge, leads to an opposite 
conclusion. He is a reasonable being. Wars are 
inseparably connected with the highest acts of ingrati- 
tude, revenge, cruelty, and crime. Apply the epithet 
reasonable to these acts, and you have a string of 
solecisms. 

War, it is said, is necessary, because it has been 



THE UNKNOWN ISLES. 231 

the business of the world, — because it has afforded 
occupation for one half of the population of the earth 
in all ages. War is useful, because it has made nearly 
all the great men that ever lived. Take away, they 
exclaim, from the history of the species, all that apper- 
tains to war and conquest, and what an uninteresting, 
barren, desolate retrospect have we left! Some emi- 
nent lawyers and physicians, a few profound divines 
and learned judges, here and there a great orator — 
doubtful if they would have been so, but from the 
excitements growing out of the events of war! Now 
and then a good poet — questionable even this, if they 
could not have sung of arms! 

Thus men think, talk, and declaim; and thus are 
cheated to believe that wars cannot be prevented. 
But where is the man who has undertaken by fair and 
legitimate deduction, from any principles applicable to 
human conduct, or from the nature of things, to prove 
that war is necessarily entailed upon the race of man ? 
What moralist has ever come to this result? What 
writer, upon the nature or history of man, has ever 
shown that a love of war is born with him, interwoven 
in his very nature, instinctive and incorrigible ? 

Bigelow, 



THE UNKNOWN ISLES. 

Oh! many are the beauteous isles 

Unknown to human eye, 

That, sleeping 'mid the ocean smiles. 

In happy silence lie. 

The ship may pass them in the night, 



232 THE UNION OF THE STATES. . 

Nor the sailors know what a lovely sight 

Is resting on the main; 

Some wandering ship who hath lost her way, 

And never, or by night or day, 

Shall pass these isles again. 

There, groves that bloom in endless spring 

Are rustling to the radiant wing 

Of birds in various plumage bright, 

As rainbow hues, or dawning light. 

Soft falling showers of blossoms fair, 

Float ever on the fragrant air. 

Like showers of vernal snow; 

And from the fruit-tree spreading tall, 

The richly ripened clusters fall 

Oft as sea-breezes blow. 

The sun and clouds alone possess 

The joy of all that loveliness; 

And sweetly to each other smile 

The live-long day — sun, cloud, and isle. 

How silent lies each shattered bay! 

No other visiters have they 

To their shores of silvery sand, 

Than the waves that, murmuring in their glee, 

All hurrying in a joyful band. 

Come dancing from the sea. Wilson. 



THE UNION OF THE STATES. 

What has the constitution left undone, which any 
government could do for the whole country } In what 
condition has it placed us ? Where do we now stand r 
Are we elevated or degraded by its operation.^ What 



THE UNION OF THE STATES. 233 

is our condition under its influence at the very moment 
when some talk of arresting its power and breaking its 
unity? Do we not feel ourselves on an eminence? 
Do we not challenge the respect of the whole world? 
What has placed us thus high? What has given us 
this just pride? What else is it but the unrestrained 
and free operation of that same Federal constitution, 
which it has been proposed to hamper, and manacle, 
and nullify ? Who is there among us that should find 
himself on any spot of the earth, where human beings 
exist, and where the existence of other nations is 
known, that would not be proud to say, I am an 
American? I am a countryman of Washington? 

Our country, at the present time, stands on com- 
manding ground. Older nations, with different sys- 
tems of government, may be somewhat slow to ack- 
nowledge all that justly belongs to us. But we may 
feel, without vanity, that America is doing her part, 
in the great work of improving human affairs. There 
are too principles strictly and purely American, which 
are now likely to overrun the civilized world. In- 
deed they seem the necessary result of the progress 
of civilisation and knowledge. These are, first, popu- 
lar governments ; and, secondly, universal education. 
Popular governments and general education, acting 
and reacting, mutually producing and reproducing 
each other, are the mighty agencies which, in our 
days, appear to be exciting, stimulating, and changing 
civilized societies. 

On the basis of these two principles, liberty and 
knowledge, our American systems rest. Thus far we 
have not been disappointed in their results. Our 
existing institutions, raised on these foundations, have 
conferred on us almost unmixed happiness. Do we 
2G* 



234 THE RUINS. 

hope to better our condition by change ? When we 
shall have nullified the present constitution, what are 
we to receive in its place ? As fathers, do we wish for 
our children better government, or better laws? As 
members of society, as lovers of our country, is there 
any thing we can desire for it better than that, as ages 
and centuries roll over it, it may possess the same 
invaluable institutions which it now enjoys? 

Webster, 



THE RUINS. 



I Ve seen, in twilight's pensive hour, 

The moss-clad dome, the mouldering tower, 

In awful ruin stand; 
That dome, where grateful voices sung. 
That tower, whose chiming music rung, 

Majestically grand! 

I 've seen, 'mid sculptured pride, the tomb 
Where heroes slept, in silent gloom, 

Unconscious of their fame; 
Those who, with laureled honors crowned, 
Among their foes spread terror round. 

And gained — an empty name! 

I 've seen, in death's dark palace laid, 
The ruins of a beauteous maid. 

Cadaverous and pale! 
That maiden who, while life remained, 
O'er rival charms in triumph reigned, 

The mistress of the vale. 



INCREASE OF KNOWLEDGE. 235 

I Ve seen, where dungeon damps abide, 
A youth, admired in manhood's pride, 

In morbid fancy rave; 
He who, in reason's happier day. 
Was virtuous, witty, nobly gay, 

Learned, generous and brave. 

Nor dome, nor tower, in twiUght shade, 
Nor hero fallen, nor beauteous maid. 

To ruin all consigned. 
Can with such pathos touch my breast 
As (on the maniac's form impressed) 

The ruins of the mind! Osborn. 



INCREASE OF KNOWLEDGE. 

What are great and beneficial discoveries, in their 
origin? What is the process which has led to them? 
They are the work of rational man, operating upon the 
materials existing in nature, and observing the laws 
and properties of the physical world. The Creator of 
the universe has furnished us the material ; it is all 
around us, above us, and beneath us; in the ground 
under our feet; the air we breathe; the waters of the 
ocean and of the fountains of the earth; in the various 
subjects of the kingdoms of nature. We cannot open 
our eyes, nor stretch out our hands, nor take a step, 
but we see, and handle, and tread upon the things, 
from which the most wonderful and useful discoveries 
and inventions have been deduced. 

What is gunpowder, which has changed the charac- 
ter of modern warfare ? It is the mechanical mixture 



236 INCREASE OF KNOWLEDGE. 

of some of the most common and least costly substan- 
ces. What is the art of printing ? A contrivance less 
curious, as a piece of mechanism, than a musical box. 
What is a steam-engine ? An apparatus for applying 
the vapor of boiling water. What is vaccination? 
A trifling ail, communicated by a scratch of the lan- 
cet, and capable of protecting human life against 
one of the most dreadful maladies to which it is ex- 
posed. 

And are the properties of matter all discovered? its 
laws all found out? the uses to which they may be 
applied all detected? I cannot believe it. We cannot 
doubt, that truths now unknown are in reserve, to 
reward the patience and the labors of future lovers of 
truth, which will go as far beyond the brilliant discove- 
ries of the last generation, as these do beyond all that 
was known to the ancient world. The pages arfe infi- 
nite in that great volume, which was written by the 
Hand Divine, and they are to be gradually turned, 
perused, and announced, to benefited and grateful 
generations, by genius and patience; and especially 
by patience; by untiring, enthusiastic, self-devoting 
patience. 

The progress which has been made in art and sci- 
ence is indeed vast. We are ready to think a pause 
must follow; that the goal must be at hand. But 
there is no goal; and there can be no pause; for art 
and science are in themselves progressive. They are 
moving powers, animated principles: they are instinct 
with life; they are themselves the intellectual life of 
man. Nothing can arrest them, which does not 
plunge the entire order of society into barbarism. 
There is no end to truth, no bound to its discovery 
and application; and a man might as well think to 



ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 237 

build a tower, from the top of which he could grasp 
Sirius in his hand, as prescribe a limit to discovery 
and invention. Everett. 



ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 

Tranquillity! thou better name 

Than all the family of Fame ! 

Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 

To low intrigue, or factious rage: 

For, oh I dear child of thoughtful Truth, 

To thee I gave my early youth, 
And left the bark, and blessed the steadfast shore. 
Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar. 

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
On him but seldom, power divine, 
Thy spirit rests! Satiety 
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee. 
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope 
And dire Remembrance interlope. 
To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: 
The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 

But me thy gentle hand will lead 
At morning through the accustomed mead; 
And in the sultry summer's heat 
Will build me up a mossy seat! 
And, when the gust of autumn crowds 
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, 
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, 
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. 



238 PLEASURES OF SCIENCE. 

The feeling heart, the searching soul, 
To thee I dedicate the whole! 
And, while within myself I trace 
The greatness of some future race, 
Aloof, with hermit-eye, I scan 
The present works of present man — 
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! 

Coleridge. 



THE PLEASURES OF SCIENCE. 

If it be a pleasure to gratify curiosity, to know what 
we were ignorant of, to have our feelings of wonder 
called forth, how pure a delight of this very kind does 
Natural Science hold out to its students? 

Recollect some of the extraordinary discoveries of 
mechanical philosophy. How wonderful the laws that 
regulate the motions of fluids! Is there any thing in 
all the idle books of tales and horrors more truly 
astonishing than the fact, that a few pounds of water 
may, by mere pressure, without any machinery, by 
merely being placed in a particular way, produce an 
irresistible force? What can be more strange, than 
that an ounce weight should balance hundreds of 
pounds, by the intervention of a few bars of thin iron? 

Observe the extraordinary truths which Optical 
Science discloses. Can any thing surprise us more, 
than to find that the color of white is a mixture of all 
others — that red, and blue, and green, and all the rest, 
merely by being blended in certain proportions, form 



A HAPPIER CLIME. 239 

what we had fancied rather to be no color at all, than 
all colors together? 

Chemistry is not behind in its wonders. That the 
diamond should be made of the same material with 
coal; that water should be chiefly composed of an 
inflammable substance; that acids should be almost 
all formed of different kinds of air, and that one of 
those acids, whose strength can dissolve almost any 
of the metals, should be made of the self-same ingre- 
dients with the common air we breathe; that salts 
should be of a metallic nature and composed, in great 
part, of metals, fluid like quick silver, but lighter than 
water, and which, without any heating, take fire upon 
being exposed to the air, and,, by burning, form the 
substance so abounding in saltpetre and in the ashes 
of burnt wood: these, surely, are things to excite the 
wonder of any reflecting mind — nay, of any one but 
little accustomed to reflect. 

And jet these are trifling when compared to the 
prodigies which Astronomy opens to our view: the 
enormous masses of the heavenly bodies; their im- 
mense distances; their countless numbers, and their 
motions, whose swiftness mocks the uttermost efforts 
of the imagination. 



A HAPPIER CLIME. 

When sailing on this troubled sea 
Of pain, and tears, and agony, 
Though wildly roar the waves around, 
With restless and repeated sound, 
'T is sweet to think that on our eyes 



240 CHARLES II. AND WM. PENN. 

A lovelier clime shall yet arise ;^ — 
That we shall wake from sorrow's dream 
Beside a pure and living stream. 

Yet we must suffer, here below, 

Unnumbered pangs of grief and wo; 

Nor must the trembling heart repine, 

But all unto its God resign; 

In weakness and in pain, made known, 

His powerful mercy shall be shown, 

Until the fight of faith is o'er. 

And earth shall vex the soul no more! 

Eastbum. 



CHARLES II. AND WILLIAM PENN. 

Charles. Well, friend Willian^J I have sold you a 
noble province in North America; but still I suppose 
you have no thoughts of going thither yourself 

Penn. Yes I have, I assure thee, friend Charles, 
and I am just come to bid thee farewell. 

Ohm\ What ! venture yourself among the savages 
of North America! Why, man, what security have 
you that you will not be in their war-kettle in two 
hours afler setting foot on their shores? 

Penn. The best security in the world. 

Char, I doubt that, friend William; I have no idea 
of any security, against those cannibals, but in a regi- 
ment of good soldiers, with their muskets and bayo- 
nets. And mind I tell you beforehand, that, with all my 
good will for you and your family, to whom I am under 
obligations, I will not send a single soldier with you. 



CHARLES 11. AND WM. PENN. 241 

Penn. I want none of thy soldiers, Charles; I 
depend on something better than thy soldiers. 

Vhar. Ah! and what may that be? 

Penn. Why, I depend upon themselves — on the 
workings of their own hearts — on their notions of jus- 
tice — on their moral sense. 

Char. A fine thing, this same moral sense, no 
doubt ; but I fear you will not find much of it among 
the Indians of North America. 

Penn. And why not among them, as well as others ? 

C/iar. Because, if they had possessed any, they 
would not have treated my subjects so barbarously as 
they have done. 

Penn. That is no proof to the contrary, friend 
Charles. Thy subjects were the aggressors. When 
thy subjects first went to North America, they found 
these poor people the fondest and kindest creatures in 
the world. Every day they would watch for them to 
come ashore, and hasten to meet them, and feast them 
on the best fish, and venison, and corn, which was all 
that they had. In return for this hospitality af the 
savages, as we call them, thy subjects, termed Christ- 
ians, seized on their country and rich hunting grounds, 
for farms for themselves ! Now is it to be wondered 
at, that these much injured people should have been 
driven to desperation by such injustice; and that, 
burning with revenge, they should have committed 
some excesses.^ 

Char. Well, then, I hope you will not complain 
when they coroe to treat you in the same manner. 

Penn. I am not afraid of it. 

Char. Ay ! how will you avoid it ? You mean^to 
get their hunting grounds too, I suppose? 

Penn. Yes, but not by driving these poor people 
away from them. 2( 



242 CHARLES II. AND WM. PENN. 

Char. No, indeed! How then will you get the 
lands ? 

Penn. I mean to buy their lands of them. 

Char. Buy their lands of them ! Why, man, you 
have already bought them of me. 

Penn. Yes, I know I have, and at a dear rate too; 
but I did it only to get thy good will, not that I thought 
thou hadst any right to their lands. 

Char. Zounds, man! no right to their lands! 

Penn. No, friend Charles, no right at all: what 
right hast thou to their lands? 

Char. Why, the right of discovery, to be sure; 
the right which the pope and all christian kings have 
agreed to give one another. 

Penn. The right of discovery! A strange kind of 
right, indeed! Now suppose, friend Charles, that some 
canoe loads of these Indians, crossing the sea, and 
discovering thy island of Great Britain, were to claim 
it as their own, and set it up for sale over thy head, — 
what wouldst thou think of it? 

Char. Why — why — why — I must confess, I should 
think it a piece of great impudence in them. 

Penn. Well, then, how canst thou, a Christian, 
and a christian prince too, do that which thou so 
utterly condemnest in these people whom thou callest 
savages? Yes, friend Charles; and suppose, again, 
that these Indians, on thy refusal to give up thy island 
of Great Britain, were to make war on thee, and, 
having weapons more destructive than thine, were to 
destroy many of thy subjects, and to drive the rest 
away, — wouldst thou not think it horribly cruel? 

Char. I must say that I should, friend William: 
how can I say otherwise ? 

Penn. Well, then, how can I, who call myself a 



BELSHAZZAR. 043 

Christian, do what I should abhor even in heathens? 
No, I will not do it. But I will buy the right of the 
proper owners, even of the Indians themselves. By 
doing this, I shall imitate God himself, in his justice 
and mercy, and thereby ensure his blessing on my 
colony, if I should ever live to plant one in North 
America. Weems. 



BELSHAZZAR. 

Hour of an empire's overthrow! 

The princess from the feast were gone, 

The idol flame was burning low; 

'T was midnight upon Babylon! 

That night the feast was wild and high, 

That night was Sion's gold profaned ; 

The seal was set to blasphemy ; 

The last deep cup of wrath was drained. 

Mid jewelled roof, and silken pall, 

Belshazzar on his couch was flung; 

A burst of thunder shook the hall; 

He heard! but 'twas no mortal tongue; 

' King of the East! the trumpet calls. 

That calls thee to a tyrant's grave; 

A curse is on thy palace walls, — 

A curse is on thy guardian wave; 

A surge is in Euphrates' bed. 

That never filled its bed before ; 

A surge that ere the morn be red. 

Shall load with death its haughty shore. 

Behold a tide of Persian steel! 

A torrent of the Median car: 



244 THE LIFE OF A DRUNKARD. 

Like flame their goiy banners wheel; 

Rise, king, and arm thee for the war!' 

Belshazzar gazed; the voice was past — 

The lofty chamber filled with gloom; 

But echoed on the sudden blast 

The rushing of a mighty plume. 

He listened — all again was still; 

He heard no iron chariots' clang; 

He heard the fountains' gurgling rill, 

The breeze that through the roses sang. 

He slept; — in sleep wild murmurs came, 

A visioned splendor filled the sky; 

He heard Belshazzar 's taunted name; 

He heard again the Prophet cry — 

' Sleep, Sultan! 'tis thy final sleep; 

Or wake, or sleep, the guilty dies; 

The wrongs of those, who watch and weep 

Around thee, and thy nation, rise.' 

He started; mid the battle's yell 

He saw the Persian rushing on; 

He saw the flames around him swell; — 

Thou 'rt ashes! King of Babylon. Croly. 



THE LIFE OF A DRUNKARD. 

If you would mark the misery which drunkenness 
infuses into the cup of domestic happiness, go with me 
to one of those nurseries of crime, a common tippling 
shop, and there behold collected till midnight, the 
fathers, the husbands, the sons, and the brothers of a 
neighborhood. Bear witness to the stench and the 
filthiness around them. Hearken to the oaths, the 



THE LIFE OF A DRUNKARD. 245 

obscenity, and the ferocity of their conversation. Ob- 
serve their idiot laugh; record the vulgar jest with 
which they are dehghted, and tell me what potent 
sorcery has so transformed these men, that for this 
loathsome den, they should forego all the delights of 
an innocent and lovely fireside. 

But let us follow some of them home from the scene 
of their debauch. There is a young man whose 
accent, and gait, and dress, bespeak the communion 
which he once has held with something better than all 
this. He is an only son. On him, the hopes of pa- 
rents and of sisters have centred. Every nerve of 
that family has been strained to give to that intellect, 
of which they all were proud, every means of choicest 
cultivation. They have denied themselves, that noth- 
ing should be wanting to enable him to enter his pro- 
fession under every advantage. They gloried in his 
talents, they exulted in the first buddings of his youth- 
ful promise, and they were looking forward to the 
time when every labor should be repaid, and every 
self denial rewarded, by the joys of that hour, when 
he should stand forth in all the blaze of well earned 
and indisputable professional preeminence. Alas, 
these visions are less bright than once they were! 

Enter that family circle. Behold those aged parents 
surrounded by children lovely and beloved. Within 
that circle reign peace, virtue, intelligence and refine- 
ment. The evening has been spent in animated dis- 
cussion, in innocent pleasantry, in the sweet inter- 
change of affectionate endearment. There is one who 
used to share all this, who was the centre of this circle. 
Why is he not here } Do professional engagements 
of late so estrange him from heme ^ The hour of 
devotion has arrived, They kneel before their Father 
21=^ 



246 NATURE ALWAYS TRUE. 

and their God. A voice that used to mingle in their 
praises is absent. An hour rolls away. Where now 
has all that cheerfulness fled ? Why does every effort 
to rally, sink them deeper in despondency.^ Why do 
those parents look so wistfully around, and why do 
they start at the sound of every footstep ? Another 
hour has gone. That lengthened peal is too much for 
a mother's endurance. She can conceal the well 
known cause no longer. The unanswered question 
is wrung from her lips, where, oh where, is my son. 

The step of that son and brother is heard. The 
door is opened. He staggers in before them, and is 
stretched out at their feet, in all the loathsomeness of 
beastly intoxication. Wayland. 



NATURE ALWAYS TRUE. 

Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her! 'Tis her privilege, 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy, for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of common life 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith that all that we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk : 
And let the misty mountain winds be free 



SOCIAL HAPPINESS. 247 

To blow against thee : and in after years, 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. 

Thy memory be a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies, oh! then, 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 

And these my benedictions. WordswoHh. 



SOCIAL HAPPINESS, 

If the improvements of the mind, the advancements 
in the arts of utility and ornament, are produced by 
social intercourse, may we not say, that social inter- 
course offers men the greatest number of enjoyments? 
Do we derive no felicity from the fine arts, from 
knowledge, and from refinement of feelings? Is no 
pleasure felt while we listen to the strains of music? 
while we read the majestic numbers of poetry, or 
while we gaze on the landscape, ornamented by the 
hand of cultivation ? Who will say there are no pleas- 
ures in knowledge ? Surely not he who has felt the 
influence of one ray of that profusion of science which 
beams on the mind of the philosopher, who has realized 
the force of moral truth, and enjoyed the luxury of 
mathematical demonstration. 

Do we derive no felicity from refined feelings? Is 
there no delight in sociability, no charm in friendship, 
no rapture in love ? Is there no blessedness in benefi- 
cence, when by a reciprocation of benefactions, the 



248 HUMAN LOVE. 

heart is warmed with gratitude, and dilated with benev- 
olence? What solitary pleasures can compare with 
t?iese? Can the gross fruition of the anchorite equal 
the refined felicity of conjugal intercourse? Can the 
wild savageness of natural liberty afford a delight like 
the sober, undisturbed satisfaction of civil freedom? 
Can the faith and devotion of the solitary, who ' sees 
God in clouds, or hears him in the wind,' swell the 
soul with such exalted beatitude, as glows in the 
bosom of the Christian, who, illumined by the full 
blaze of revelation, looks beyond the mountain, beyond 
the lurid cloud, and, enraptured, beholds a God of 
bpundless mercy, seated on the circuit of the heavens? 
No ; even the happiness of a solitary angel must sink 
below the reach of computation, when once contrasted 
with the felicity of those on earth, who stand within 
the embrace of social intercourse, and feel their souls 
engaged by knowledge, refined by reason, illumined 
by revelation, warmed by devotion, and united by the 
ties of friendship and love. Burges 



HUMAN LOVE. 

Oh if there is one law above the rest 
Written in wisdom — if there is a word 
That I would trace as with a pen of fire 
Upon the unsunned temper of a child — 
If there is any thing that keeps the mind 
Open to angel visits, and repels 
The ministry of ill — 'tis human love! 
God has made nothing worthy of contempt. 
The smallest pebble in the well of truth 



THE GOOD WIFE. ^49 

Has its peculiar meaning, and will stand 

When man's best monuments have passed away. 

The law of heaven is love, and though its name 

Has been usurped by passion, and profaned 

To its unholy uses through all time, 

Still, the eternal principle is pure; 

And in these deep affections that we feel 

Omnipotent within us, we but see 

The lavish measure in which love is given; 

And in the yearning tenderness of a child 

For every bird that sings above his head. 

And every creature feeding on the hills, 

And every tree, and flower, and running brook, 

We see how every thing was made to love. 

And how they err, who, in a world like this. 

Find any thing to hate but human pride. Willis, 



THE GOOD WIFE. 

What shall be said of the influence of a wife, whose 
constant and uniform virtues reflect their amiable and 
attractive lustre on the character of her husband? 
Such a woman is above all praise. Affectionate, be- 
loved, and respected, her favorite wish and delightful 
employment is, to render him respected, useful, and 
happy also. 

There is a oneness of soul, a community of interests, 
an identity of circumstance and condition, between her 
and her husband, which such a woman improves to the 
best advantage, and never fails to subordinate to his 
highest good. Is he prosperous? All his enjoyments 
are doubled and muitipUed when shared by her; and 



250 THE GOOD WIFE. 

in her gratified participation, every prospect becomes 
light and gladsome. Is he embarrassed and depressed 
by the perplexing and wearisome cares of life? How- 
are his toils forgotten, and how do the hardships and 
fatigues which beset his course, lose their severity, 
when rehearsed in her attentive ear, and reposed on 
her kind and faithful bosom. 

Is he the child of sorrow, and do afflictions and dis- 
tresses pour their bitterness into his cup } How are 
his trials alleviated, his sighs suppressed, his cor- 
roding thoughts dissipated, his anxieties and pains 
relieved, his gloom and depression chased away, by 
her cheerfulness and love. Is he overwhelmed by 
disappointment, and mortified by reproaches ? There 
is one who can hide her eyes even from his faults, and 
who, like her Father who is in heaven, can forgive 
and love ' without upbraiding.' And when he is sick- 
ened by the subtleties and deception of the world; 
when the acrimony of men has made him acrimonious; 
when he becomes dissatisfied with himself, and all 
around him, — her pleasant smile, her undissembled 
tenderness, her artless simplicity, ' restore him to 
himself, and spread serenity and sweetness over his 
mind.' 

But this is not all. Her wisdom and kindness not 
unfrequently transform his moral character. When 
every excellence is concentrated in the person of the 
female whom he has chosen in preference to all other 
women to be his bosom companion, what attractions 
can a reasonable man have to mingle with the snares 
of corrupt and corrupting society.'^ And with what 
tender and mighty persuasion may such a wife allure 
her husband to the paths of heavenly wisdom! 

Spring. 



TRUE ELOQUENCE. 251 



THE SLEEP WALKER. 

In midnight dreams the wizard came, 

And stood before my view, 
While tempting hopes of wealth and fame, 

He to my vision drew. 
He led me forth across the heath, 

To where a river swept; 
And there a glassy tide beneath 

Uncounted treasures slept. 
The joyous ripples gaily danced 

Around the cherished store. 
And circling eddies brightly glanced 

Above the yellow ore. 
I bent me down on the cold, smooth stream 

And plunged the gold to get. 
But oh! it vanished like a dream, 

And I got dripping wet! 



THE NATURE OF TRUE ELOQUENCE. 

When public bodies are to be addressed on momen- 
tous occasions, when great interests are at stake, and 
strong passions excited, nothing is valuable in speech, 
farther than it is connected with high intellectual and 
moral endowments. Clearness, force, and earnest- 
ness, are the qualities which produce conviction. 

True eloquence, indeed, does not consist in speech. 
It cannot be brought from far. Labor and learning 
may toil for it, but they will toil in vain. Words and 
phrases may be marshalled in every way, but they 



252 TRUE ELOQUENCE. 

cannot compass it. It must exist in the man, in the 
subject, and in the occasion. 

Affected passion, intense expression, the pomp of 
declamation, all may aspire after it; they cannot reach 
it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking 
of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting forth of 
volcanic fires, with spontaneous, original, native force. 

The graces taught in the schools, the costly orna- 
ments and studied contrivances of speech, shock and 
disgust men, when their own lives, and the fate of their 
wives, their children, and their country, hang on the 
decision of the hour. 

Then, words have lost their power, rhetoric is vain, 
and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius 
itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the pres- 
ence of higher qualities. Then, patriotism is elo- 
quent; then, self-devotion is eloquent* 

The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of 
logic, the high purpose, the firm resolve, the daunt- 
less spirit, speaking on the tongue, beaming from the 
eye, informing every feature, and urging the whole 
man onward, right onward, to his object; this, this is 
eloquence; or, rather, it is something greater and 
higher than all eloquence; it is action, noble, sublime, 
godlike action. D. Webster. 



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